The Baseball Battalion 04: Ignescent
by SCS12
Summary: Stiles Stilinski-Hale is at it again, only this time the trouble is not his fault. When a mad ghost threatens the President, Stiles is on the case, following a trail that leads him deep into his husband's past. Will Stiles manage to determine who is trying to kill the President before it is too late? Is it the vampires again or is there a traitor lurking about in wolf's clothing?
1. Chapter 1

"Four months! Four months you've been sitting on this little scheme of yours and only now you decide to tell me!" Stiles Stilinski-Hale did not enjoy being surprised. He glared at the three people in front of him. Fully grown, and a good number of centuries older than him, yet they still managed to look like shamefaced children.

"We didn't want to worry you yet," ventured his husband. His voice was gruff in an attempt at calm solicitude.

"Oh, and the constant vampire death threats have been so very restful?" Stiles was having none of it. His voice was shrill enough to disturb Laura's cat, normally a most unflappable creature. The chubby pet opened one eye and yawned.

"But isn't it the most _perfect_ solution, dearest?" asked Laura, petting the cat absently. The vampire's discomfort was the most manufactured of the three. There was a twinkle in her eyes, however downcast. It was the twinkle of someone about to get their own way.

Derek glared at Laura at the term of endearment, but didn't say anything, for which Stiles was grateful. He had other things to yell about. He didn't have time to argue about _that_ right now too.

"To lose possession of my own child? Really, Derek, how could you agree to this? Without consulting me?"

"Stiles, did you miss the fact that the entire pack has been on constant bodyguard duty for the past four months? I'm not sure we can keep it up. I told you – no, I _promised_ you – that I would protect your child. This is the only way I can ensure he's protected in the long term."

Stiles adored his husband. He was particularly fond of the way he strode about shirtless, but there were moments he didn't actually like him. Right now was definitely one of those moments.

"And how do you think we've felt being on the receiving end of such constant supervision? But Derek, _adoption_?" Stiles stood and began to pace about. For once, he was blind to the beauty of Laura's sitting room. _I should have known better than to agree to a meeting here_ , he thought. _Something bad always happens here_.

"The queen thinks it's a good plan." That was Argent joining in. His was probably the most genuine regret. He was also the one truly responsible for this plot, unless Stiles was very wrong.

"Fucking great for her. Absolutely not – I refuse."

"Stiles, be reasonable." Derek was trying to wheedle. He wasn't very good at it.

"Reasonable? Fuck off."

Laura tried a new tactic. "I have already converted the room next to mine into a positively charming bedroom."

Stiles was really quite shocked to hear that. He paused in his wrath to blink at the vampire in surprise. "Not your second closet? Really?"

"Indeed. You see how _seriously_ I am taking this. Connor _is_ my child as well. I didn't even bitch about his name."

Stiles paused. He forgot that, sometimes. None of the Manhattan vampires believed the child was part vampire – or if they did, they assumed it would be sympathetic to werewolves in any case. The news that Laura was his mother had either been not believed or disregarded as unimportant. Stiles unfortunately sometimes made the same mistake.

He looked to Argent for assistance and tried to calm himself and behave as practically as possible. "This will stop the attacks?"

Argent nodded. "I believe so. I have not been able to consult with any queens outright. The hives refuse to admit to an extermination mandate and BUR has not yet determined how to prove the vampires are trying to kill him and you."

Stiles knew the Bureau of Unnatural Registry was handicapped by a combination of paperwork and proper appearances. Because they were the enforcing department of the FBI for America's supernatural and preternatural subjects, it had to seem at all times to be obeying its own laws, including those that guaranteed the packs and the hives some level of autonomy and self-governance.

Stiles straightened up and glared at Argent. "So then tell me how you came up with this. How do you know that this will stop them trying to murder us given that you haven't asked?"

Argent looked helplessly at his coconspirators. Derek, happy to not be on the end of the glare for once, slouched back in his chair. Laura merely continued to subtly grin unhelpfully.

Clearly surmising that he had been left out to dry, Argent took a deep breath. "How did you know it was my idea?"

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. "Give me _some_ credit."

Argent sighed. "Well, we know the vampires are afraid of what Connor could be when he turns seven. But I think they are smart enough to know that if raised with proper precautions, even the most natural-born predator will behave. It is vampire nature to believe that any vampire, even – not to insult you – Laura, will teach him the correct ethical code. Having a vampire raise the child will ensure he's kept away from antisupernatural elements. And you and Derek, of course. If they feel like they're in control, all the death threats should stop."

Stiles looked at Laura. "Do you agree?"

She nodded.

Argent continued. "She seemed the best solution."

Derek wrinkled his nose and huffed derisively.

Argent, Laura, and Stiles all pretended not to hear him.

"She is more powerful than any other rove in the area. She has a large number of drones. She is centrally located, and as potentate, she carries the authority of the government. Plus, she _is_ his mother, whether the other vampire's acknowledge it or not. Few would dare interfere."

Laura tapped Argent playfully on the shoulder with one hand. "Chrissy, you flatterer."

Argent ignored this. "She is also your friend."

Laura looked up to her ceiling. "I have also implied that – whether they believe the child is mine or whether they care – because of a certain unmentionable incident, the hives owe me a debt of honor. My potentate predecessor may have taken matters into his own hands, but _the fact remains_ that the hives should have exerted some control over his activities on their behalf. His kidnapping of my dear _Scotty_ was inexcusable and they are _very well aware_. I hold a blood debt and intend to bite them back with this arrangement. I may not have wanted one, but they will not kill _my_ child."

Stiles looked at his friend. Her posture was as relaxed and frivolous as ever, but there was a hardness about her mouth that suggested she meant was she was saying. "That's a rather serious statement, coming from you."

The vampire smiled briefly. "Better revel in it, Stiles _dear_. It will probably never occur again."

Stiles nibbled at his lower lip and went to sit down. "You're okay with this?" He looked at Derek.

Derek looked at him, suddenly very serious. "I'm taxing BUR and the pack to keep you both safe. I've even contemplated calling back any of our pack out on active duty for emergency leave." Damn him for looking so handsome when he was sincere. It quite undid Stiles's resolve. "Not that I would do it any differently. I think I'll get a lot of angry phone calls if I pull military strings in a personal matter. Well, more than I've already done over the potentate. We must be clever. They're older and craftier and they'll keep trying. I don't think we can continue like this for the rest of our child's life. But I'll try if you want me to."

And that was it. That was what all it took to convince Stiles. Derek calling the kid 'ours'. And to admit that he couldn't protect them. He knew it cost Derek a terrible price to admit to any kind of inability. He liked to think he was all-powerful.

Stiles nodded and turned to Laura. "Fine. If you intend to take him, then I'm moving in too."

Laura didn't miss a beat. She opened her arms wide as though to embrace him. "Of course. _Welcome_ to the family. Or, well, _even more_ to the family, I should say."

"You do realize I may have to take up in your other closet?"

"Sacrifices, sacrifices."

"What? Absolutely not." Derek stood and glared down at his husband.

Stiles got _that_ look on his face. "I'm already here two nights a week for the Shadow Council. I'll come in on Wednesday and stay through to Monday. I'll spend the rest of the week at Newark."

Derek could do the math. "Two nights? You're only going to be home two nights?"

Stiles wouldn't budge. "You're in town on BUR business most evenings. You can see me then."

"Stiles," Derek said, definitely with a grown. "I refuse to petition for visiting rights with my own husband!"

"I really don't care. You're forcing me to choose!"

"Derek, Stiles?" Argent interjected.

They glared at him. They enjoyed arguing with each other almost as much as they enjoyed any other intimate activity.

Argent ignored this – far too used to the glares to care. "The house next door is up for rent. What if Newark were to take it on as a town residence? You and Stiles could keep a room here, but pretend to live next door. This would keep up the appearance of separation. Of course, parts of the month everyone would have to return to Newark for security purposes. But it should work, until the child's grown."

"Will the vampires object?" Stiles rather liked the idea. Newark Castle was a little too far outside Manhattan for his taste.

"I don't think so."

Laura was amused. "Chrissy, _darling_ , so unprecedented – a wolf pack living directly next to a vampire. Oh! I _adore_ this plan. Stiles, you must make over your town house to complement mine!"

Argent was a little more pragmatic. "Will it work?"

Laura beamed. "Of course!"

Stiles interjected. "And you wouldn't mind Derek and me here?"

"I suppose I could surrender another closet to the cause."

Stiles grinned.

"Whoever thought I would have a werewolf living in my closet?" A gleam entered Laura's eyes. "I suppose your pack must spend a great deal of time underdressed?"

Derek rolled his eyes – not looking particularly happy about the plan in any way – but said nothing. Argent was not above a little bribery. "Or not dressed at all."

"My drones will love it. They adore remarking on the neighbors."

Scott remained unmentioned, although everyone was thinking about him. Stiles, being Stiles, decided he would bring the taboo subject out into the open. "Scott is going to be pleased."

Silence met the statement.

Laura assumed a forced lightness of tone. "How _is_ the newest member of the Newark Pack?"

In truth, Scott was not adjusted well. He still fought the change each month and refused to try shifting of his own volition. He obeyed Derek, but there was no joy in it. The result was he was having trouble learning any control and had to be locked away more often than not.

Derek only answered gruffly, "He is well enough."

Stiles frowned. Had he been alone with Laura, he might have said something more, but he didn't. If they did move into Laura's neighborhood, she would find out soon enough.

* * *

 _The ghost drifted. Floating between this world and death._

 _It was better – this was better, he had to believe – than nothingness. Even the madness was better._

 _But sometimes he was aware of it, the reality and the substantial world around it. There were parts of it missing. There were people acting indifferently or incorrect. There were new feelings that had no right to intrude. No right at all._

 _The ghost was certain, absolutely certain, that something must be done to stop it. But he was nothing more than a specter, and a mad one at that, drifting between undead and dead. What could he do? Who could he tell?_


	2. Chapter 2

On their way back to Newark something slammed into the car. Derek slammed on the brakes and pulled over. He put the car into park not a second too soon, as something crashed through the window, pulling Derek out with him. Stiles could see the glass cutting into Derek's arms and face, blood still dripping down the car, even as the wounds healed themselves.

Stiles grappled around, looking for his gun. Between the sheer number of attacks he'd faced since returning from Europe and his constant pleading to both Derek and his father, he'd finally gotten a gun and been properly trained to use it – against both humans and supernaturals. Stiles could see Derek, already changed into his werewolf form, grappling with someone outside the car.

A moment later, someone else walked up to the car and opened – tore off, more like – the car door.

"Good evening, Mr. Stilinski-Hale." The vampire gave a wide smile that was usually accompanied by a twin smile from his brother. A shadow passed over Stiles and he realized someone was on the other side of the car. Oh, there he was.

"How are you, Ethan, Aiden?"

"Not bad. Not bad. It's a lovely night, isn't it?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, trying to analyze his choices. "Are you here to kill me?"

Stiles tried to reach for his gun, which he saw in the now open glove compartment.

The vampire – Ethan, Stiles thought – tilted his head to one side. "Yes."

"Really, must you? I'd much rather you didn't."

"Yes, that's what they all say."

Stiles moved toward his gun, finding it difficult to do so while trying to keep an eye on both vampires. "Not very subtle for Morrell to send you both to do the job."

Ethan (Stiles thought) moved into the car. "Well, our more subtle attempts were wasted on you."

"Subtly usually is."

Ethan ignored him and continued on. "Sometimes when you want something done, you must send the best." He lunged towards Stiles, supernaturally fast. In his hands, he held a garrote. Stiles would never have thought the dignified Manhattan Hive capable of wielding such a primitive assassin's weapon. Hell, they'd mostly been trying to shoot him as of late.

Stiles ducked. Ethan hit his brother rather than Stiles and Stiles finally had a hold of his gun. He swung about and fired. At such a close range, even he managed to hit the vampire full force in the shoulder, surprising him considerably.

Stiles aimed the gun again. "Take a seat, would you two? I believe I have something to discuss with you that might change your current approach. And I'll aim for something that probably won't hold up as well next."

The vampire looked down at his shoulder, which wasn't healing as it ought to. The bullet hadn't passed through, but had lodged in the bone. Aiden grimaced at his brother.

"Sundowner bullets," explained Stiles. "You're in no mortal danger from a shoulder injury, but I wouldn't leave it in there if I were you."

Stiles got right to the point, even if neither vampire decided to sit down in the car next to him. "You can stop trying to kill me. I've decided to give the boy up for adoption. Well, sort of."

"Oh? And why should that make any difference to us?"

"The lucky mother to be – or actual mother, although none of you seem to care – is Laura Hale."

The vampires lost their sulky expressions for ones of genuine shock. They hadn't expected such a bizarre revelation.

"Laura Hale?"

Stiles nodded sharply.

"You would allow your progeny to be raised by a vampire?"

Stiles snorted slightly. _Progeny? Really?_ He shook his head. _Vampires._ Regardless, he didn't move his hand, his gun still aimed at Ethan.

"The potentate, no less." Stiles reminded him of Laura's relatively recent change in political status.

He watched each vampire's face closely. He was giving them an out and knew they must _want_ one. Marin Morrell, Queen of the Manhattan Hive, would want one. All the vampires had to be uncomfortable with the situation. It was probably why they kept screwing up the assassination attempts – their hearts simply weren't in it. Oh, not the killing – vampires treated killing as barely more taxing then ordering a new pair of shoes. For some – Stiles thought of Laura – the shoes might be more stressful. No, they would want to get out of having to kill an Alpha werewolf's mate and possibly child. Stiles's death at vampire hands, whether provable or not, would bring a whole mess of trouble down upon the hives. It was not that they would necessarily lose a war with werewolves; it was simply that it would be very bloody. Vampires hated to lose blood – it was hard to replace and always left a stain.

Stiles pressed the point, figuring between the two of them, they had enough time to think it over. "Surely you all can approve such a neat solution?"

They both glared for a moment, but Stiles could tell they were considering it. "I don't suppose you'd allow the Queen to be the child's godmother, would you?"

Stiles blanched a bit, but recovered quickly. "Well," he tried for a polite response. "You know, my husband, he's already a little upset about Laura as it is. To add your hive might be more than he could stomach."

"Ah, yes, the wolf. Can't forget him," sneered Aiden. Stiles thought his sneer might be worse than Jackson's, if that was possible. He had a few years more practice, in Jackson's defense, though.

"You will make it fully legal? Release all parental rights and put it in writing?"

"Yes," Stiles nodded. "Newark is intending to lease the house next door. He is my – err - _progeny_ after all."

Ethan nodded and started backing away from the car – Aiden mimicking him on the other side.

Moments later, Derek emerged, naked, but looking mostly alright.

"You okay?"

Derek grunted absently, but Stiles stared at him till he finally explained. "Ennis. He ran off though. Don't know what happened."

Stiles decided to fill him in on his conversation with the twins.

* * *

 _The ghost was in that space again, that insubstantial void. He thought he might float there forever if he could simply stay still. Still as death._

 _But reality intruded. Reality from his own mind, however little of it was left. "You have to tell someone. You have to tell them. This is wrong. You are mad and even you know this is wrong. Put a stop to it. You have to tell."_

 _Oh inconvenient, when one's own brain starts issuing orders._

" _Who can I tell? Who can I tell? I am only a ghost."_

" _Tell someone who can do something. Tell the effervescent."_

" _Him? But I don't even like him."_

" _That's not excuse. You don't really like anyone."_

 _The ghost hated it when he was sensible with himself._


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles walked into their townhouse with Derek, but had barely remarked on the furnishing that Erica had picked out (he certainly knew better than to do it himself) when a ghost materialized up through the carpet next to him.

Under ordinary circumstances, ghosts were too polite to simply appear in the middle of a conversation. The better-behaved took pains to drift into front hallways at the very least. This one wafted into existence out of the center of the new rug.

Derek jumped back. Stiles let out a gasp. Finstock, who had come in behind them – and despite Stiles's assurances that the vampire death threats were over, refused to leave him – raised an eyebrow.

"Do we know if this house came with a ghost?"

"I don't think so," said Derek.

The ghost in question was fuzzy around the edges and not altogether in the middle. She must be close to poltergeist state. When she began speaking, it became very clear that this was the case, because her mental faculties had degenerated and her voice was high and breathy, sounding as though it emanated from some distance away.

"Hale? Or was it fail? I used to think I was going to fail school all the time. I didn't study much." The ghost paused and twirled around, trailing misty tendrils through the air. "Message. Missive. Meatloaf. Didn't like meatloaf much. Wait! Urgent. Or was that pungent? Important. Impossible. Information."

Stiles looked at his husband curiously. "One of BUR's?"

The Bureau of Unnatural Registry kept a number of mobile ghost agents – exhumed and preserved bodies with tethered specters that could be placed in select locales or near key public institutions for information-gathering purposes. They took pains to have a noncorporeal communication network in place, where each ghost's tether crossed over the limites of at least one other's. This stretched the length and breadth of Manhattan, although it was not able to cover all of New York City. Of course, it had to be updated as its members went insane, but such maintenance was routine.

The werewolf shook his head. "Not that I know of. I'd have to look at the registry to be sure. I've met most of our ghosts at least once, though. Don't think this one is under contract at all, or someone would be taking far better care of the body." He braced himself in front of the ghost, arms stiff by his side. "Hello? Listen up. Where are you tethered? This house? Where is your corpse? You are drifting."

The ghost looked at him in puzzled annoyance and floated up and down. "Not important. Not important at all. Message, that's what's important. What was it?" She paused in her speech a moment, still twirling. "Oh yes. Are you Stiles Whale?"

Stiles didn't know how to respond to _that_ , so he nodded.

Derek, useless as he was, snorted.

Both Stiles and the ghost ignored him. All of the ghost's wavering attention was now focused on Stiles. "Bilinski? Stilinski. Son of? Dead. Effervescent. Problem?"

Stiles wondered whether all of this was related to his mother or to himself, but he supposed in either context it was accurate enough. "Yes."

The ghost twirled again, pleased with herself. "Message for you." She paused, worried and confused. "Custard. No. Conscription. No. Conspiracy. To kill, to kill . . ."

"Me?" Stiles guessed. He thought it might be a safe bet – someone was usually trying to kill him.

The ghost became agitated, straining at her invisible tether and vibrating slightly. "No, no, no. Not you. But someone. Something?" She brightened suddenly. "The queen? The king?" She paused again. "No, wait. We don't have royalty in America, do we? Well, we kind of do." She started spinning again, this time faster. "The kind of royalty! The leader! Kill the leader!" The specter began to sing. "Kill the leader! Kill the leader! Kill the leeeader!"

Derek stopped smiling.

"Good. Yes? That's all. Bye-bye, living people." The ghost then sank down through the floor of their new house and vanished, presumably back the way she had come.

Stiles turned to Derek, who was already grabbing his car keys. "She should be in tether radius of this house. There has to be a record of it somewhere in BUR's files. Scott is next door setting up our things and I think Argent is around. I'll figure it out."

Stiles nodded. "I'll get Connor from my dad's. Don't be out too late."

Derek nodded and took off.

* * *

"You really think she meant the President?"

The sun had just set and they were awake in their own house, next door to Laura's. The conversation had not changed from that of the night before; it had only paused for Derek to conduct a short investigation and catch half a day's sleep.

Derek glanced up. "Why else would she come to you? 'Kind of royalty'? He's the closest we have. Even if it was a ghost, we can't disregard it."

"You don't think I'm concerned? I've alerted the Shadow Council. We have a special meeting called tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Is there a problem?" Stiles dared Derek to say anything.

Derek, although prone to arguing, was still rather subdued with Stiles since their abrupt trip to Europe months previously. He wasn't quite sure Stiles trusted him yet, although Stiles rarely brought it up anymore. "No – just – I'd rather you bring someone with you. It's dangerous. We don't know if the vampires are done going after you."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding me? Fine. If I have to bring someone, I want it to be Scott."

Derek did not approve at all. "Scott! He's a new wolf. He can't even control the change. What good could he possibly be?"

"It's Scott or nobody." _Typical of Derek to see only Scott's limitations as a werewolf and not his abilities as a human._

"It's not a good choice." Derek's jaw was set. Stiles's safety was a subject Derek was willing to argue about.

"Scott has had Laura's training. That is a skill set that branches away from a normal wolf."

Derek snorted.

"I'm not just thinking of me. He needs some kind of distraction, Derek. Haven't you noticed? He's not settled."

Derek had noticed. Of course he had. He noticed everything about his wolves. It was part of his most essential being, to hold the pack together as a single cohesive entity.

"How will him following you around help him?"

"Am I not also a part of the pack?" Stiles retorted.

Derek grunted sheepishly. Stiles couldn't explain in so many words how he knew it was a _sheepish_ grunt, but somehow, he did.

"If you ask me, it's not that Scott can't find his place in the pack, so much as you aren't giving him the right place. You're thinking of him as you would any new wolf, but he's not. He's different."

Derek, remarkably, didn't jump immediately to the defensive. "I know. Chris and I were discussing it recently. There aren't many women around, though."

Stiles made a disgusted noise. "Scott doesn't need a girlfriend, he needs a purpose. This is a matter of culture. Scott has come out of vampire culture. _Laura's_ vampire culture."

"So what do you suggest?"

"You all have accepted me and I'm not exactly normal werewolf material."

"But you're my husband!"

"Exactly!"

"You want us to make him marry someone?"

Stiles almost threw his hands up in exasperation. "No, you idiot. Just think of him as if he married in from the outside."

Derek paused a moment, thoughtful. Then he nodded slowly.

Stiles realized he must be very troubled by Scott to listen without protesting much. Werewolf and pack nature was so ingrained into him and having to think of a new way to do something – and to take suggestions from someone who was not a werewolf – must be very difficult for him, indeed.

"You think there's a chance you might lose him, don't you?"

Derek did not answer, but that was an admission in and of itself. Stiles chose his next words carefully. "How quickly can omega status be established?"

"They can go solitary at any time, but it is usually for a specific reason and occurs within the first few years of metamorphosis."

"You don't think he would survive, do you?"

"Omegas are unstable. They fight constantly. He's not a fighter, not like that." Derek's eyes were pained and guilty. This mess with Scott was his fault. Unintentionally his fault, but Derek Hale was not the kind of man who shifted blame merely because they were all victims of circumstance.

Stiles took a deep breath. "Then you should leave him with me for a while. I'll see what I can do. Remember, I can change him back if he loses control." Stiles wriggled a few fingers at his husband.

"Find, but check in with me or Chris."

As Derek said this, Chris Argent wandered into the room, pulling the mostly unread newspaper out from under Derek's arms.

Now that he had both of them in front of him, Stiles directed the two werewolves back onto the matter at hand. "So, anything come out of BUR on the threat?"

"Not that we could find," answered Argent.

"Must be the vampires," said Derek.

"Why would you say that?" asked Stiles.

"Isn't it always?"

"No, sometimes it's scientists." Stiles was referring to his old colleagues. "And sometimes it's religious zealots." Now he was thinking of the Templars. "And sometimes it's the werewolves."

"Are you really defending the vampires? They've been trying to kill you for months."

Before Stiles could continue, Laura wafted in with a cry of " _Stiles!_ "

The vampire, dressed a bright yellow sundress, paused in the doorway. "Isn't this delightful. I can just pop next door and visit the family."

"And how nice that you are not a hive queen to be confined to your own home," replied Stiles. He gestured for the vampire to draw up a chair.

She got right down to business. "So, what do you think about this new threat?"

Derek looked with shock at his Beta. "Chris, really?"

Argent didn't flinch. "Of course not."

"Stiles?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "She knows because it's _Laura_. You're going to have to get used to it."

Laura laughed almost daintily. "Thank you, _darling_ , for your faith in my meager resources."

"Of course. _So?_ "

"I haven't formed an opinion as to the nature and origin of these rumors quite yet."

Derek snorted. "You haven't lacked for an opinion in your entire life."

Laura arched an eyebrow. "Yes, but Dere-bear, those usually involve fashion, not politics."

Scott appeared in the doorway moments later with Finstock.

"Oh right, I have that meeting tonight."

Finstock handed Stiles his briefcase. "You'd make a really good, butler, you know," Stiles said. Finstock just glared.

Scott stood at Stiles's side. "I'm staying with you tonight?"

"Yea. How did you know?"

Scott have him a look remarkably similar to the one Laura usually gave when she was asked such a question.

"Would you like to share a car, Laura? Apparently I've got bodyguards to spare tonight. Might as well make use of them."

"Why not?" Laura bounced up and swept from the room, Scott trailing faithfully after.

As they left, Stiles heard his husband say to Argent, "How long do you think we're going to have to keep this up?"

"Until Connor's an adult, I suppose," responded the Beta.

"It's going to be a long 14 years."

"You'll be fine."

Stiles and Laura exchanged smiles.

* * *

" _Did you tell him?" asked the first ghost, stretched as far as he cold, shimmering in and out of existence with the strain of his extended tether._

" _I told him." The second ghost bobbed up and down in the air above the street. She was a little more substantial, a little closer to home. "I told him what I could remember. I told him to put a stop to it. Are we done now?"_

 _They were both lucid, strangely lucid, for two so near the end. It was as though the afterlife were given them this one chance to fix things._

" _We're done," said the first ghost. Both of them knew he wasn't referring to their plan or their relationship but to their inevitable demise. "Now only I must wait."_


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles Stilinski-Hale, shah, and Laura Hale, potentate, were allowed through the entrance of a rather nondescript office building with very little ceremony. It was not one of their scheduled visits, but they were regulars and, as such, required only minimal security checks. They were also favorites, or Stiles was, in any case. Laura was generally regarded by both local and federal agents as _challenging in large doses_. However, the security agents were diligent and hardworking. Stiles's neck was checked for bite marks and his briefcase for illegal electronics. He wielded up his baseball bat and gun without question. He'd rather have them confiscate them than try to explain how the baseball bat worked or what kind of bullets were in the gun. Laura's clothing was far too tight for any hidden weaponry, but the guards did check her purse before allowing them to proceed.

Scott was not permitted entrance, though. He was not _on the list_. Scott just shrugged as Stiles and Laura walked on.

They made their way to the conference room to find the dewan already pacing around. The President was not there. He didn't attend most Shadow Council meetings. He expected to be informed of anything significant but otherwise was uninterested in the minutiae.

"Threat to the President, I hear." The dewan had always creeped Stiles out. He was therefore very unnerved to find out – well, he'd pretty much forced Derek to tell him – that he was actually another relative of Derek's. Peter was Derek and Laura's uncle, to be exact. Stiles's anger at not being told that his _husband_ had _family_ was in a tough battle with his intellectual curiosity at the number of Hales that closely related in consanguinity that had all become supernaturals. He'd had a number of long discussions with his colleagues about it – all in the hypothetical, of course. Stiles wasn't sure the President even realized it. Three family members all on his Shadow Council was not the most unbiased of groups, even if Peter did not seem to associate much with Laura or Derek, and therefore, not with Stiles.

"Hmm," Stiles made a noise of agreement as he and Laura took seats at the long table, leaving the dewan to pace around.

"Serious, do you think? This threat?"

Stiles took his notes out on the ghostly event. He had attempted to remember and transcribe everything the specter had said to him. "The threat came to me via a ghost messenger. I think we must treat it with slightly greater significance than we would some idiot opportunist trying to get his 15 minutes of fame."

Laura added, "And, if a supernatural told the threat to an effervescent, it is likely that someone or someone equally unnatural is involved."

The dewan sighed softly. "Very serious."

Stiles continued. "Derek says that BUR records show nothing of this ghost, either. They've been unable to locate either her or her body since she delivered the message." Stiles had no problem involving the two arms of the government's supernatural supervisory operations. As far as he was concerned, bureaucratic restrictions were fine, but they could really slow a person down. While BUR was supposed to handle enforcement and the Shadow Council deal with legislative issues, Stiles was causing the two to become more entangled.

The dewan was suspicious. "Why was the message delivered to _you_? And why use a ghost? Most are instinctively afraid of you."

Stiles shrugged. Even when he was properly introduced to ghosts, they were wary. "No clue. If anyone, I figured they would have gone to Derek."

"The fact that you are shah is not well known either, except by the hives. A standard ghost would not have had access to that information. There's even less reason to tell you."

Stiles shrugged again. "Maybe it had something to do with my mother."

The dewan stopped pacing. "Why would it?"

"The ghost muttered something about 'son of Stilinski' as though she were specifically driven to find me because of my name. I thought she meant my father at first, but she said something about effervescent and dead."

"Perhaps the ghost knew your mother in life."

Stiles nodded. "Maybe. Regardless, if the threat is coming from a supernatural, who do we think could do it?"

Laura said immediately, "I know one or two omegas who have been getting restless." She tilted her head and snapped her teeth together a couple of times.

The dewan countered with, "There are some roves with sharp fangs out there."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I think we ought to take everything into consideration and assume that it could also be a hive or a pack that is involved."

Laura looked cagey and the dewan uncomfortable.

The dewan said, "Fine, but what kind of lead do we have?"

"Only the ghost. I need to find her soon. She was getting pretty unsubstantial."

"Why you?" demanded the dewan.

"Clearly I have to do it. I was the one she was looking for, so I'm the one she'll talk to. Either of you will probably do more harm than good. I'm already concerned that Derek is blundering around without supervision."

Laura laughed.

Stiles continued, uninterrupted. "A ghost left untended, no preservation. How long do you think she'd remain sane?"

The dewan answered, "Only a few days."

"And if she were properly preserved?"

"Several weeks."

Stiles chewed his lower lip. "That's a pretty big window."

"It would have to be someone who has died recently, though. And was left near enough to the townhouse."

"Hmm, maybe a morgue?"

Laura nodded.

"Do we inform the President in the meantime?" Now that they had some kind of plan, the dewan seemed to feel that pacing about was no longer necessary. He came to sit at the table.

Laura took a stand at that. She always took a stand over control of information. "Not just yet, I think. Not until we have more concrete evidence. All we have now are the mutterings of a mad ghost."

* * *

The next day, Stiles woke up, snuck across the balconies connecting Laura's townhouse to his own and down the stairs only to find Erica seated in the living room, chatting amicably with one of the clavigers.

"Oh, Stiles! I have to tell you!"

"Huh?" He not very awake yet. He had in fact skipped his morning coffee, as he wasn't sure if he was supposed to be getting it at Laura's place or his own under this new arrangement. Connor was still asleep and Derek was nowhere to be found, so he didn't know who to ask either.

"Stiles! You have to say yes. You have to!" Erica grabbed him around the midsection and squeezed. Stiles was still very confused.

"To what?"

"I'm having a baby!"

"You're what? With Boyd?"

She smacked him. The thing about Erica was, if she meant to hurt you, it probably wasn't going to. But if she smacked you in jest, it would probably leave a bruise. This was one of the latter kinds. Stiles rubbed his shoulder tenderly.

"Of course with Boyd, you idiot."

"Can I just say that I still think it's weird that you call your own husband by his last name?"

Erica rolled her eyes, but ignored the comment. "You have to be the kid's godfather. I haven't asked Boyd yet, but I know he'll do whatever I ask."

Stiles grinned. _That_ was the Erica he knew. "Of course I will! Congratulations!"

Erica's grin practically blinded him. "That's not actually why I'm here. We had our first doctor's appointment this morning. We were going to wait to tell people, but I can't wait. I promised Boyd I would, but I saw you and I just can't. You know me."

Stiles hugged her to him one more time. "You're going to be a kickass mom, Erica."

"Well, of course. But, the real reason I'm here. Two days ago I was leaving Lydia's shop. You know I still help her out? She's been in and out of town so much."

Stiles nodded.

"Well, a ghost popped right up in front of me! Said the strangest thing about a snake. Something like 'the snake is inequitable' or something similar. Then he asked me where you lived. I know they're all tethered, so I didn't see the harm in telling him."

Stiles gave her a sharp look.

"I know. I know. Once I realized Derek and Chris were looking into BUR records on a ghost that popped up here, I got suspicious, so I thought I should come tell you. I think it has something to do with the Order of Ouroboros."

This comment brought Stiles up short. " _What did you just say?_ "

"The Order of Ouroboros. You must have heard of it."

Stiles blinked in shock. "Yes, but how have _you_?"

"I've been working with Lydia for months. She's not exactly subtle about her membership in it. I think once she realized I knew she made it clear that the main order is fine – it's the offshoots that cause trouble, like the one that Blake chick was in who took you hostage."

Stiles nodded. He'd had his suspicions about Lydia, but hadn't asked her. He'd been doing is research about the Order of Ouroboros since his returned from Europe. It was that order, after all, that Danny had rescued Connor from – even if he had also said it was one of the more fanatical offshoots.

When Erica left, Stiles stopped Finstock who had been hovering not-so-subtly in the hallway. "Is there a local Order of Ouroboros chapter in the area? Perhaps you ran across it while you were on the force?"

Finstock gave him a long look. "About a block over. I noticed the marking just after you began visiting Laura here."

"Marking?"

"Yes. There is a snake sketched on the door handle. Number eighty-eight."


	5. Chapter 5

Number 88 was not very impressive. While its immediate neighbors were nothing when compared to Laura Hale's townhome, they still attempted. They acknowledged, in an entirely unspoken way, that they were located in one of the most fashionable residential areas in the city – if only because of one of their residents – and their architecture and grounds should earn this accolade. Number eighty-eight was shabby in comparison.

Stiles knocked on the door. A man answered the door, giving Stiles a very rude look.

"Good afternoon," Stiles tried to smile pleasantly, but if the look the man was giving him was anything to go by, he didn't succeed. "I heard there was a group of scientists here? I met one of him while he was teaching at Columbia a few years back. I was wondering if they were taking on any assistant researchers. I have great credentials!"

Stiles really couldn't tell if the overeager student act was playing out well or not. He _did_ look young for his age, but he wasn't exactly college aged anymore – or even close.

"There has been a recent opening-" Stiles brightened "-however, you'll need to apply online like everyone else." Stiles frowned a bit.

"Well, could I at least see the set up while I'm here? Are any of the lab areas open or anything? Just to get a look around?"

The man gave a very put-upon sigh, but motioned Stiles in.

It was obvious that this place was no longer used as a residence, but was used almost exclusively for research. Every room Stiles could see was wall-to-wall books. One or two rooms had their doors closed and Stiles supposed they may be offices.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Err—Finstock."

The man nodded, but did not give his name in response. He led Stiles to a back room. It was sparsely furnished with two desks and half empty bookshelf.

"This was the last assistant's office. She shared with another assistant. Most research was done in here. The practical research is mostly left up to the more experienced scientists."

Stiles nodded, wondering how he was going to get the man out so he could poke around. _This_ was clearly what he was looking for.

Luckily, the doorbell rang.

"Excuse me one moment, that's our supply order. Please do not touch anything. I can explain the application process to you when I return."

Stiles nodded, still attempting to hide his desire to dig through everything immediately.

Once the man left the room, Stiles started looking around. He found very little he thought might be helpful, but there were a number of notebooks. He knew he couldn't take them all, but he grabbed the most recent and one that looked to be the oldest. He also grabbed anything that looked suspicious or out of place. He filled his briefcase as full as he dared.

When the man returned, Stiles figured he'd better make his escape and quickly followed the man back to the front. He was just being let out when a voice stopped them both. "Well, really, Mr. Stilinski?"

The man walking towards them was well-known to Stiles, but _dammit_ , he _still_ couldn't remember his name. Unfortunately, Stiles was all too familiar with his face.

"I thought you were dead!"

"Not quite. Although Mr. Hale did do his best." The man continued toward them, moving with a pronounced limp, probably sustained during the last battle at their workplace. He had been the biology professor helping Jennifer Blake abduct supernaturals years before.

"Yes, Derek does try. Shouldn't you be serving some sort of sentence then?"

"It has been served, I assure you. I think, perhaps, you should come with me, Mr. Stilinski."

"It's actually Doctor, now. Dr. Stilinski-Hale, to be precise. And I was just leaving."

"Oh you married him, did you? I had wondered after your little display."

Stiles backed toward the open door, pulling his baseball bat out of his briefcase and straightening it out. He lifted it into a defensive position, readying a numbing dart.

The man looked at it with wary respect. "Dr. Martin's work, isn't that?"

"You know Lydia?"

He looked at Stiles as though he were an idiot. _Of course_ , thought Stiles, _this is a chapter of the Order of the Ouroboros. Lydia is also a member. I did not realize the Order was reabsorbing its fringe group members. I need to tell Derek._

The biologist tilted his head. "What are you doing, Mr. Stilinski?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. The man wasn't to be trusted. Apparently the biologist felt much the same about Stiles, because he issued an order to the now-forgotten man who'd let Stiles in.

"Grab him!"

Luckily, he was confused. "What? Sir?"

At which point, Stiles shot the scientist with a numbing dart. Lydia had armed the darts with high-quality, fast-acting poison. The biologist pitched forward with an expression of shock on his face and collapsed.

The other man recovered and lunged at Stiles, but Stiles flailed a bit, and, waving the bat wildly, managed to strike him on the side of the head.

It was not a very accurate hit, but it was violent. Another moment later, Stiles had shot him with a second numbing dart and then ran out onto the street, clutching his plunder and feeling very proud of his afternoon's achievement.

* * *

Unfortunately for Stiles, there was absolutely no one to appreciate his endeavors when he returned home. Disgruntled, he set himself up to examine his misappropriated loot.

Nothing was particularly interesting. The most recent journal, unfinished and unhelpful, articulated disoriented views. There was no way to determine whether she was the ghost who had come to warn Stiles, though. It seemed likely, though.

Stiles almost gave the whole excursion up as a waste, until he looked at the older journal. One entry was dated some twenty-five years earlier. The ghost had been older, so it was possible she was merely old for an assistant and this was her recollections. The handwriting was the same, in any case. The entry mused with interest over a new order – for ingredients to be sent by post in separate allotments for sake of security, to a werewolf pack in California. The connection between time and location caused Stiles to think of Derek's retelling of a certain betrayal. The same betrayal that caused him to abandon Beacon Hills and take over Newark. The entry didn't list the ingredients, but it didn't call it a poison, either. Most other entries mentioned the word poison somewhere, if that was what was dealt with. Derek's mother and brother were killed by fire, but it took a lot to kill the supernatural. Could they have had some chemical help? He realized there no way to prove a connection, but coincidence in date was good enough for him. What were the chances that the same girl was connected to both a murder twenty-five years ago and an assassination threat now?

 _But why order from New York?_ Stiles couldn't help but wonder. _Why risk being caught?_ And then he had a thought. _What if someone wanted to be caught? And they just weren't caught in time?_

He was interrupted in his musing by Derek stomping into the room. He was dressed for work, but much better than normal. He looked much more pulled together than Stiles was used to seeing him. He had on a dark suit with faint pinstripes and a lovely green tie that perfectly complemented his eyes. Laura's drones must have gotten a hold of him. He looked irresistible. As a result, he also looked a little uncomfortable.

Stiles smiled up at him and for a moment Derek lost the slightly nervous look he constantly wore around Stiles – ever since they'd come back from Europe. Stiles knew _why_ Derek looked nervous and he wished he could make it go away. But Stiles wasn't just going to tell Derek everything was forgiven and forgotten either. Derek had to work to re-earn that trust, although he was working on it. With all the attacks, though, it wasn't like they had a lot of time for just the two of them though. It had put some strain on the relationship. For now – for this moment, though – it was nice to see Derek without the nervousness. Stiles stood and pecked him lightly on the lips.

Then Stiles made the mistake of mentioning his afternoon's investigations and his theory.

"Stiles," Derek said in a drawn-out growl, "I'm not comfortable with that resurfacing. I really don't want that to come back up."

Stiles, perfectly aware this growl was one of distress and not anger, placed his hand over Derek's. "If there's a connection, I need to check it out. I promise just to look at the relevant details and not get distracted by personal curiosity."

Derek sighed.

Stiles moved closer. "I know it's painful, but it may be important. I'd like to know if this assistant was the same woman who became a ghost and warned me. It could be important."

Derek nodded sharply.

"I'll even take Scott with me."

Derek looked slightly more relieved at that.

* * *

When Stiles arrived at Lydia's shop with Scott in tow, it was to find Lydia looking practically gaunt. She had always been thin, but during her most recent travels, she had lost flesh she could not afford to lose. The inventor always had been more concerned with the pursuits of the mind over the body, but never before had she sported such dark circles.

"Are you okay?" asked Stiles. "It is Liam? He is supposed to be home for the month, right? Is he being horrible?"

Lydia's son was a cheerful creature with an unfortunate penchant for mischief. There was no malice in his actions, but his mere presence resulted in a kind of microcosmic chaos that kept his mother on edge.

Lydia flinched slightly and shook her head. "He's not here now."

"Then what's the matter? You really don't look alright."

"Just some trouble sleeping, Stiles. Don't worry about it. Did you come to pick up Newark's new order or is this merely a social call?"

Stiles accepted the conversational redirection. "Oh, is there an order? I guess I can take it. But actually I wanted to ask you about something."

They made their way downstairs to Lydia's underground laboratory.

"Ooh, is that a new commission?" Stiles made his way through the clutter. Dominating the lab was a partly assembled transport contraption. Or Stiles assumed it was – it didn't have any wheels or wings yet. Inside were levers and an operator's seat, though and small slits at the front for visibility. It was well out the ordinary of Lydia's normal subtle inventions.

"Something I've been working on."

"Is it armed?" Stiles asked.

"In part." Something in Lydia's tone warned Stiles off.

"Oh, is it a government contract? I won't ask anymore."

"Thanks." Lydia smiled in tired gratitude.

Government contracts were lucrative, but not something one could speak of openly, even to someone on the Shadow Council.

"Was there something specific you wanted?"

Stiles hesitated and then jumped right to the point. "Do you know anything about the Beacon Hills fire twenty years ago? I mean, anything from the Order of Ouroboros?"

Lydia started in genuine surprise. "What has brought that up?"

"I made a contact recently that led me to some information on it."

Lydia crossed her arms contemplatively. "I don't know anything. I was pretty young, but we could ask Deaton. I'm not certain how useful he might be but the attempt can't hurt."

"Deaton?"

Lydia paused a moment, her face sad. "He's finally undergoing diminished spectral cohesion. Even with all my preservation techniques and chemical expertise, it was inevitable. He has his lucid moments, though."

Stiles realized this must be the true source of Lydia's distress. She was losing a treasured family member – whether blood relation or not. The man who had raised her.

"Oh Lydia, I'm so sorry."

The inventor's face crumpled slightly at the sympathy. "I cannot help but think that this is to be my fate, too. First Allison and now Alan."

"Surely not! You cannot be so confident you'll be able to cling to this life." Stiles would have offered to ensure exorcism, but Lydia had been angry when he'd done it for Allison.

"No, you are correct. I have been traveling, researching, studying, trying to find a way to extend his afterlife. But there is _nothing_." Her tone was anguished, that of a scientist who sees a problem, but no solution.

"You've done your best. You've given him years longer than any other ghost."

"Years for what? Humiliation and madness?" Lydia took a breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get off topic. Do you still wish to speak to him?"

"Will he talk to me, do you think?"

"We can try."

Lydia yelled out, "Alan! Where are you?"

Several moments later, a ghostly form shimmered into existence.

"Yes? You summoned me?"

As soon as he spotted Stiles, the ghost drew himself inward, appearing to wrap the drifting threads of his noncorporeal self closer.

"You have the effervescent vising you. Honestly, I don't know why you persist with that." The ghost's voice was bitter, but more out of habit than any real offense. Then he seemed to lose track of what he was saying. "Where? What? Where am I? Lydia, why are you so old?" He swirled in a circle. "Why have you built that? I said never again. What could possibly be so dire?"

Lydia, her expression stiff in an attempt to hide distress, snapped her fingers in front of the ghost's face. "Alan, please pay attention. Stiles has something serious to ask you."

"Formerly Deaton, are you familiar with the Beacon Hills pack fire from about 25 years ago?"

The ghost bobbed up and down in surprise. "Oh, why, yes. Although not intimately, of course. From the sidelines. I lost one of my students because of it."

"Really?"

"Yes. Lost her to duty. Silly dogfight. Poor girl. Imagine having to take on that kind of responsibility. And over werewolves!"

"Cora Hale was your student?"

The ghost's head titled. "Cora. That name is familiar. Oh, yes. Such a smart girl."

Before the ghost could ramble anymore, Stiles tried to steer the ghost onto more relevant matters. "Did you happen to hear, at the time, whether there was a connection between the fire and the Order of Ourboros?"

"Connection? Connection? Of course not."

Stiles was taken aback by the firm confidence. "How can you be sure?"

"How can I not? I would have known. Someone would have told me." Formerly Alan Deaton swirled around in distress, once more catching sight of Lydia's latest project. He paused as thought hypnotized by the imposing thing. "Oh, Lydia I can't believe you would. I can't. Not for anything. Why, child, why? I must tell. I must convince . . ." He ended up facing Stiles once more and, as though seeing him for the first time, said, "Effervescent! You! You will stop everything in the end, won't you? Even me."

Lydia pressed her lips together, closer her eyes, and gave a sad sigh. "There he goes. We won't get any more sense out of him this evening. I'm sorry, Stiles."

"That's okay. I guess I'll have to send someone to California. I don't want to do this over the phone. I don't know what their security is like there and I'd rather as few people know about this as possible. I don't suppose . . .?"

Lydia looked even more unhappy. "Oh, no. I am sorry, but I cannot afford the time. Not right now. I have this" – she waved a hand at the thing she was building – "to finish. And Deaton to think of. I should be with him, now that the end is near."

Stiles turned to the inventor. "Would you like me to send him on?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"No, thank you. I'm not quite ready to let him go."

Stiles sighed, nodded, and gave Lydia a small hug.


	6. Chapter 6

Had they not just moved, Stiles might have made a different choice – one of the clavigers, maybe. But the pack was in chaos over the move. They were nowhere near as tethered to a place as vampires, but werewolves were, to an extent, tethered to each other. Solidarity and proximity were necessary for continued cohesion. And if the Shadow Council supplied its own agents, Stiles would have his own manpower to call on. BUR was already somewhat involved in the investigation, though, and if Stiles was right, BUR would be putting Erica on desk duty the second they were informed about the pregnancy. She'd be dying to get out and do something.

Stiles decided to visit Boyd and Erica's apartment, rather than have her come to him. He told himself it was because he wanted to keep the activity from becoming public knowledge outside of those actually investigating the assassination rumors, but it was at least partly because he didn't want to bring it up in front of Derek again.

When he arrived, he let himself in with the key Erica had given him and found Erica curled up on her couch, an open container of ice cream on her lap.

"You can't already be having cravings, can you?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Know a lot about pregnancy, do you?"

"Erica."

She grinned. "I'm going to take advantage of the excuse to eat whatever I want for as long as I can. Boyd is already freaking out. He'll do whatever I ask."

Stiles laughed. "Of course you are."

"What are you doing here, anyway? How's the kid?"

"Connor is fine. Now that the threats have died down, one of Laura's drones took him to the park. I think Derek ordered at least three clavigers and two BUR agents to watch over him, just in case. I'm only unaccompanied, because I promised to take Scott with me everywhere and have conveniently left him asleep."

Erica smiled. "At least after all that, he's trying to show he cares."

"I know. And I want Connor safe. I just don't know if he's ever going to feel safe if he's constantly surrounded by bodyguards and federal agents."

"He will. It will get better. The threats just stopped." Erica patted the seat next to her. "So sit down and tell me why you came."

"Well, I figured you had to tell BUR about your pregnancy."

Erica nodded. "Boyd made me. I knew they'd take me off active duty immediately, which is crap, but he insisted."

"Well, I was wondering if you'd do me a favor."

"Of course. It's not like I have much else going on. I'm way too early in the pregnancy for much to be going on with the baby."

Stiles hesitated, wondering exactly how much to reveal. Despite his position, very few outside the supernatural community actually knew that Stiles was preternatural. Even at BUR, only Derek and Argent knew officially. If anyone else employed by them knew, it was for some other reason, and not because of their position. The only person Stiles had ever told was his father. He'd been afraid to tell Erica for so long, wondering if it would put her in some kind of danger. But he decided at this point, she was just as involved in everything as he was anyway. He might as well take the plunge. "Erica, have you ever wondered if there might be something unusual about me?"

"Not really, taste in clothing aside. I bet living next to Laura will help with that, though."

Stiles rolled his eyes. He then took a deep breath and blurted out, "I'm preternatural."

"You're what? Is it contagious?"

Stiles blinked at her.

Erica donned a sympathetic expression. "Is it painful?"

Stiles continued to blink.

"Are you okay? Does it affect Connor too?"

Stiles finally found his voice. "What? No. _Preternatural_. Effervescent. Or curse-breaker. I have too much life. A ton. As a matter of fact, I can pass it on to supernaturals given a chance."

Erica relaxed. "Oh, _that_. Yes, I knew. I wouldn't be concerned. I don't think anyone minds if they notice."

"Wait, you knew?"

Erica shook her head. "Of course – I have for ages."

"But you never told me! Did Derek tell you?"

"No he didn't. I've known you for years. I just thought you were embarrassed about it or something or maybe you thought you'd be studied for it. I did notice it's not in any of the textbooks."

"Oh, well, right. Thanks, I think. Well, I'm working on something and I need your help."

"Research?"

"More like an investigation."

"For BUR?"

"Kind of. But you really can't _tell_ anyone at BUR except maybe Derek and Argent."

Stiles didn't really want to tell Erica everything about the Shadow Council, as that really was supposed to be a secret.

"Oooh, a secret society. We should give it a name."

Stiles stared at her blankly.

She pouted. "I'm pregnant, remember. Let me have a secret society."

Stiles rolled his eyes, but remembered that at least he didn't have to deal with this all the time, like Boyd did.

"Sure. We can call it" – he hesitated for a moment and then, recalling a phrase Derek had offered up while annoyed, suggested – "The Baseball Bat Battalion?"

It was the stupidest name he could think of. He was hoping that would dissuade Erica from the whole secret society shtick. He was wrong.

"Perfect! Do we have a pledge or ritual or something? Please tell me what we do?" Erica's eyes glittered with glee. Stiles thought she would have made an admirable vampire – both infatuated with useless pageantry and espionage. Stiles didn't have the heart to stop it there. She looked like she was having too much fun and his life had had far too little purely ridiculous moments in the past few months. He wanted something to be just _fun_ for once, even for a moment.

"Of course, of course."

After a moment's thought, Stiles pulled out his bat and handed it to Erica. "Spin the bat three times and repeat after me. Pursuit of truth is my mission. I protect one and all. To shield others is my ambition. I vow by the bat of baseball."

Erica did as she was told, face as serious as she could make it, although Stiles could see her fighting to keep from laughing. He was having a hard time not laughing himself.

"Pursuit of truth is my mission. I protect one and all. To shield others is my ambition. I vow by the bat of baseball."

"Now pick up the bat and swing like you're hitting a ball. Yes, just like that."

"Is that all? Shouldn't we seal it in blood or something?"

"Oh, do you think?"

Erica nodded enthusiastically.

Stiles shrugged. "Sure, why not." He took back the bat and hit buttons on the knob, emitting tow sharp spikes, one of silver, the other wood.

After a moment's hesitation, Stiles nicked the pad of his thumb with the silver spike, did the same for Erica, and then pressed their thumbs together.

"May the life of the effervescent keep your own life safe," intoned Stiles, feeling appalling melodramatic, but knowing Erica would love it.

Erica did. "Oh this is perfect. Too bad this is a secret society. I want to tell people."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I'll have to get you a special baseball bat too."

"Oh, no. I can't carry something like that around working for BUR."

Stiles thought for a moment, but then remembered his friend's true weakness. "What about a kind of belt with some hidden items?"

"A utility belt? You want to get me a utility belt? Are you kidding me? I can be an actual superhero."

Erica's beaming smile could probably light up the city block.

"Well, it _is_ a secret society, after all. You need some secret weapons."

Erica hugged him around the midsection till he almost couldn't breathe.

"Okay, so what did you want me to do anyway? Because I know you just made all that up to humor me."

"Well, I need to know about a fire that happened in Beacon Hills about 25 years ago."

"Beacon Hills? Derek's old pack?"

"Yes, the reason he left. It killed his mother and brother and was spearheaded by his Beta."

Erica's eyes grew wide.

"I know. He doesn't really talk about it and he'd probably be pissed I told you, but I need you to go there. I think 25 years ago they ordered some kind of chemical from the Order of Ouroboros here to set the fire and I think it would be worthwhile to get information on the girl who they ordered from, but she's dead now. Ask the pack there what they knew of her and why they ordered from New York and report back."

* * *

Stiles slept restlessly, shifting aside when Derek joined him only to be awakened fully just after sunset by someone banging on the door.

"Derek, there is someone at the door!" He shook his massive husband where he lay in a boneless pile next to him.

He snuffled softly and rolled over, trying to gather him in closer. He began burrowing into Stiles's neck.

Stiles arched against him, enjoying the affection and the movement of lips against his skin. For such a scruffy man, he had very soft lips.

"Derek, there is someone at the door and I don't think Laura and her drones are awake yet."

Derek merely burrowed in against him with greater interest, apparently finding thing flavor of his neck most intriguing.

The door shook and rattled as whoever it was seemed to be trying to physically force it open. But for all Laura's frolicsome decorative choices, her house was built with the supernatural in mind, the protection of clothing being paramount. The door barely budged. Someone on the other side yelled, but a door so massive it could withstand shoe thieves could also muffle voices.

Stiles was becoming concerned. "Derek, get up and answer the door. It sounds urgent."

"I, too, have matters that are pressing and need to be taken into hand."

Stiles couldn't help it – he giggled. The innuendo was _so_ bad.

But, someone was still torturing their poor door. Derek blinked, his green eyes wide and direct. He kissed the tip of Stiles's nose and, with a massive sigh, rolled out of bed and lumbered over to the door.

Stiles admired his backside for a moment, then shrieked, "Derek, robe!"

Derek ignored him, throwing open the door and crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing.

Luckily, it was only Chris Argent.

"Chris," grumbled his husband, "what are you yelling about?"

"It's Scott. You'd better come quickly. You're needed."

"Already?" Derek started swearing and ran off, presumably to their house next door.

"What is it?" Stiles asked.

Argent turned back. "It's Scott. He really isn't handling the curse well this month. He fights it too much and the more he fights it, the more painful it is."

"But it's over a week until full moon! How long will he keep doing this?"

"Difficult to say. Could be years, could be decades of losing nights around full moons until he has better control. All new wolves are like this, although they are not often taken so suddenly or badly as Scott. Usually it's only a few days before the moon. Scott's cycle is off."

Stiles felt slightly guilty, knowing that in some roundabout way, it was his fault Scott had been captured in the first place and placed in a position where Derek had to bite him.

He made his way next door as well. When he walked into the room where he heard the most noise, he found Derek and another, smaller wolf fighting. Derek was clearly winning, but that was because Derek was still in control of all of his mental capacities. He only really lost his human mind on the actual full moon.

Derek noticed Stiles and charged at the other wolf – Scott- flipping him right at Stiles's feet. Stiles reached down and grabbed his tail, turning him human again. Stiles barely managed to grab a foot when the tail disappeared before a very naked, but very human Scott lay in front of him, panting and out of breath, but in control once again.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, the secret society scene is silly and unnecessary. However, 1) how can I base this off the original and not include it and 2) the original was _so_ much more ridiculous. Just imagine that for a second. And also, Erica would totally want a utility belt. We all know it to be true.


	7. Chapter 7

Having to keep Scott mortal made for a pretty inconvenient several hours. They had to wait around the house, connected, until Laura was awake to watch over Connor. They were now sitting in a car together. Newark Castle loomed on the horizon – a sizable blob in the moonlight.

Major Jackson Whittemore, Newark's Gamma, strode out the front door to greet them, still knotting his tie and looking as though he had only just arisen, despite the late hour. "We weren't expecting you till the full moon."

"Emergency trip. Have to stick certain persons down in the dungeon sooner than anticipated."

There were rumors as to the original owner's use of the dungeons, but regardless of initial intent, it had proved ideal for a werewolf pack. In fact, the whole house was well suited.

Stiles helped Scott down into the dungeon and into one of the smaller cells. Two clavigers accompanied them, carrying the requisite amount of silver-tipped and silver-edged weaponry, just in case Stiles lost his grip.

Stiles didn't want to let go, for Scott's face was pale with the imminent terror of transformation. It was an agonizing process for all werewolves to endure, but the new ones had it the worst, because they weren't yet used to the sensation and they were forced into it more frequently due to lack of control.

"I am sorry," was all Stiles could think to say.

Scott shook his head. "No. You've given me unexpected peace, for a moment."

They stretched apart, fingertips just touching.

"Now," said Stiles, and he broke contact, moving as fast as he could through the door of the cell. Scott, mindful of any damage he could do before Stiles could touch him again, threw himself away in that same instant, using all his regained supernatural strength and speed, before the change descended upon him.

Stiles hurried away, not wanting to hear his friend go through the painful transformation.

Instead, he decided to try the pack's library. Sometimes Argent left old BUR files there – ones that the agency had tried to get rid of. Argent didn't particularly like throwing them away, just in case they could be used at some later date. Stiles was counting on that now.

Instead, he ran into Jackson.

"Stiles," he said, unconvincingly. "I was just looking for—"

"A book?"

Jackson and Stiles had gotten off on the wrong foot and never managed to stabilize their relationship – despite the fact that he had, on more than one occasion, saved Stiles's life. As far as Stiles was concerned, Jackson was uncomfortably good-looking, which might not have been such a bad thing if he wasn't so arrogant. As to Jackson's opinion of his Alpha's mate, well the less said on the subject the better, and even _he_ was wise enough to understand _that_.

"What are you researching?"

Stiles saw no reason to hide. "The old Beacon Hills fire. Do you remember any of it?"

The Gamma could not quite disguise the look of concern on his face. Or was that guilt? "No. Why?"

"I think it might be relevant to our current situation."

"I hardly think _that's_ likely."

"Are you certain you remember nothing?"

Jackson evaded the question. "Any success?"

"Nothing."

"Well" – Jackson shrugged and made his way nonchalantly out of the room, without a book – "I think you're on the wrong track. No good is going to come out of looking into the fire." Only Jackson could put on such an air of dismissive disgust.

After that, no one intruded on Stiles in the library until a few hours before dawn, when his husband came in.

He looked up to see Derek watching him fondly, propping up a bookshelf with one shoulder.

"Ah, finally remembered me, have you?" He smile, his eyes soft and dark.

Derek strode over and kissed him gently. "Never forgot. Simply misplaced while handling the pack."

"Anything important?"

"Nothing that should concern you." Derek had learned enough to add, "Although I'm happy to relay all the small details, should you wish to drop dead of boredom right here. You'd be leaving Connor to be brought up by just me and Laura, though."

"No thank you. Please restrain yourself. How is Scott?"

Derek looked guilty again. "Not so good."

"I'm afraid your brand of roughness isn't working to pull him into the pack."

"You're right. I've never had a reluctant werewolf before. They used to have to deal with this all the time. God knows how they managed it. Scott is such a unique case these days, though. I can't…" He paused, struggling for the right words. "I can't fix his unhappiness."

He cleared himself some space among the piles of documents around Stiles settled next to him, flush against his side.

Stiles took one of his hands in his own, stroking it softly. "We'll get there. You'll figure out how to make him happy again." There was a lot of things Stiles adored about his husband, but it was how much he truly cared for his family – both biological and his pack – that Stiles truly loved.

Derek, to his credit, was learning to have a good deal of faith in Stiles's ability to help him fix things, whereas before he had been mostly running things on his own. "You'll help me think of something."

Stiles smiled softly and they sat a moment in silence.

Finally, Derek asked, "What have you been up to all this time? Are these old BUR records?"

"Yes. I'm not having a lot of luck finding anything about this threat to the President. I'm sure you have more than just BUR on it now – probably the whole FBI and probably Homeland Security, if I know you. Not to mention the Secret Service. But I can't help but think that warning was meant for me. I think I'm supposed to figure it out and I _can't_."

"Perhaps the ghost was mistaken or misheard? We haven't really considered that. She was close to poltergeist."

"That's possible. And of course it's possible that there is no connection at all to the Beacon Hills fire."

Derek growled in irritation.

"Yes, I'm well aware that you hate to be reminded."

"I just can't believe there is a connection."

"It's all I've got. And it's a hunch. Maybe it's all for nothing. But all of you government types are following the normal leads. Let me try the obscure ones."

* * *

Stiles slept on the far side of the bed from Derek. This was not because he was a restless sleeper. In fact, Derek was still as any supernatural creature, though not quite so dead-looking as a vampire. Stiles just didn't want Derek vulnerable while he slept.

Derek was snoring, though. Which was why Stiles was partly awake when the burglar entered.

There were many things wrong with a thief breaking into Newark Castle in the middle of the day. First, what thief in their right mind traveled all the way to the middle of nowhere to perform a break-in? Prospects were much better just about anywhere else. Second, why bother with Newark Castle, a den of werewolves? And third, why aim for the top floor and not downstairs?

Nevertheless, the masked form clambered over the sill with graceful movements and stood, light and balanced on his feet, silhouetted against the thick curtains that could not entirely block out the full afternoon sun. He inhaled sharply upon seeing Stiles up on one elbow staring at him. Clearly, he expected to find the room abandoned.

Stiles screamed.

His husband was no young wolf who, required by recent metamorphosis and weak control, must sleep solid the entire day through. Oh no, he _could_ be awakened. It just took a lot of noise. Stiles was up to the task. It didn't bring clavigers and other werewolves running, though. It had taken only one or two highly embarrassing incidents for the residents of Newark Castle to ignore any and _all_ noises produced by Derek and Stiles from inside the room.

Still, one angry husband was all Stiles really needed. He might have been okay on his own if his bat and gun weren't on the other side of the room.

The burglar darted to one side of the room, running for Stiles's dresser. There he opened several drawers, finally extracting a bundle of papers. He shoved these in a bag.

Before either Stiles or Derek could get to him, the thief dove for the open window. Literally dove right through, opening some sort of cape that became a parachute. Derek leaped after.

"Oh, no, Derek, don't you dare—" But Stiles's admonishment met only empty air, for he had already jumped out the window. A werewolf could take such a fall and survive, but not without damage, especially during daylight.

Concerned, Stiles looked out the window and noticed the thief taking off on a motorcycle. The sun was full in the sky, so Derek was unable to change into his wolf form. Stiles watched him run a long distance on two legs before finally stopping. Sometimes the hunter instinct took a while to defuse.

He rolled his eyes and turned to look at his dresser. What had he left in there? He hadn't even looked in there since after moving in. As far as he remembered, it was full of old letters, birthday cards, and maybe a photograph or two. Why would anyone what to steal _that_?

"Seriously, Derek," he said from next to the dresser when Derek finally got around to climbing back up the many flights of stairs to their rooms, "how you managed to jump around like that without any permanent damage is a mystery to me."

Derek snorted at him and went to sniff suspiciously at Stiles's dresser. "So, what was in that drawer?"

"I'm not sure. Some notes and letters. A card or two. I can't imagine what anyone wants with them."

"You'd think they'd be after your briefcase or laptop if it's classified things they want."

"Exactly. What did you smell?"

"A bit of grease and oil – probably from the motorcycle. Not much else. And you, of course – the whole dresser smells like you."

"Mmmm, and how do I smell?"

"Vanilla and old whiskey," he answered promptly. "Always. Delicious."

Stiles smiled.

Derek returned to his examination of the drawer. "Do we need to call the cops?"

"I don't think so. Not for a few bits of paper."

Derek nodded.

"It must be someone I know who stole it, though. I saw him enter. He was after that drawer in particular. I don't think he was expecting us to be here – he seemed startled to see me. Somehow he must have known that we weren't supposed to be staying here and which one was our room."

"Or it is meant to throw us off. Maybe he stole something else or did something that has nothing to do with those papers."

"There's really know way to know. I'm going back to bed. We can speculate later." And with the Stiles crawled into bed, Derek not far behind.

* * *

Stiles awoke to his phone chirruping in his ear, realizing he was alone in the bed – Derek having already left.

"Hullo?"

"Did I wake you?"

"Erica?"

"Oh, sorry! But I needed to call you ASAP. I figure your phone is secured and I'm on a payphone in the middle of nowhere, so we should be safe from wiretapping."

Stiles rolled his eyes and tried to prop himself up on pillows. He wasn't sure she needed to quite that far, but whatever made her feel better.

"I take it you have news?"

"Yea! I think the pack here was in contact with someone supernatural in Manhattan before the fire. It may have been his idea."

"Really? Did you get a name?"

"No. The only person who had any idea was whoever the Beta was at the time. They don't even speak her name around here. Cora always looks like she's going to bite one of them if they do."

Stiles closed his eyes in annoyance. It wasn't Erica's fault, though.

"Okay, thanks. Unless you think there's anything else to find out, you're welcome to come back to New York."

"Will do, boss! The call is about to cut off. I'm out of change. Bye!"

"Take care of yourself, Erica!"


	8. Chapter 8

"Hello Stiles. What brings you here?"

Chris Argent was the first to notice Stiles as he let himself into BUR's head office. The building was kind of grimy and bureaucratic for Stiles's taste. Argent and Derek shared a large front office, crammed with two desks, a changing closet, and a closet full of clothing for visiting werewolves. Since the Bureau was always untangling some significant supernatural crisis or another and didn't seem to employ a decent cleaning staff, it was also crammed with paperwork, dirty coffee mugs, and a dish that looked suspiciously like it had once held raw meat.

"I thought I left you at home."

Stiles rolled his eyes and ignored Derek. "I've just come by the most interesting information."

That distracted his husband for a moment. "Well?"

"I sent Erica to California to find out from Cora what _really_ happened with the fire."

"Erica? I'd wondered why she took time off," sighed Argent, not looking up from his papers.

"She found out that it wasn't simply that the ordered chemicals from New York. There was someone from New York involved. Erica thinks they orchestrated it all."

Derek stilled. "What? Did she get a name? A description?"

Stiles shook his head. "Only that he was supernatural."

Behind them, Argent's paper rustling stopped. He looked at them, his face sharpened further by inquisitiveness. Chris Argent's position at BUR was not held because he was Beta to Derek, but because of his innate investigative abilities.

Derek's temper flared. "I knew the vampires had to be involved somehow! The vampires are always involved! I swear to God if Laura knew _anything_ about—"

Stiles cut him off. "How do you know it was vampires? It could have been a ghost or even a werewolf?"

Argent came over to participate in the conversation. "This is serious news."

Derek started thinking. "Well, if it was a ghost, they would be long gone by now, so we're out of luck there. And if a werewolf, they would have been an omega. Most of them were killed off by Blake. I still suggest we start with the vampires."

"I already figured that out myself, actually," Stiles replied.

"I'll go to the hives," suggested Argent, already shrugging into a jacket.

Derek looked like he wanted to protest.

Stiles put a hand on his arm. "No, that's a good idea. He can keep his temper in check."

Argent hid a smile while Derek glared.

"Fine," grumbled Derek. "I'll go talk to the local roves. There's always a chance it's one of them. Where are you going? I still don't like you being alone. Why isn't Finstock following you around, at least?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I've asked him to keep a watch over Connor, actually. We seem to be taking off so much, I thought it was a good idea to have someone not affected by the sun with him."

Derek looked thoughtful for a moment. "That's actually not a bad idea."

"I know. That's why I thought of it. As to where I'm going, I think I'm going to have to talk to Laura and then probably Peter. Maybe even at the same time. I wonder how long it'll take the President to find out he accidentally turned his Shadow Council into a family reunion."

* * *

When Stiles arrived home – well, his New York home, anyway – it was to find Isaac, one of Laura's drones, out in the back with Connor, pushing him on a swing Stiles was sure they hadn't owned the day before. He leaned against the wall, watching wistfully.

Since returning from Europe, he hadn't actually spent much time with his son. Between all the death threats and the constant work, he was pretty sure just about everyone else in his house – and some outside of it - knew his son better than he did. The boy was smiling and laughing, begging Isaac to push him higher.

He was so engrossed he didn't notice Laura standing beside him.

"He's a cute kid, isn't he?"

Stiles jumped slightly, but when he realized who it was, just nodded.

"He looks a lot like Derek did at his age."

"At least he doesn't look like me. I was a spaz as a child."

Laura chuckled low in her throat. "I bet you were adorable. Wish I had known you then. I could have, I suppose, but your dad was just a regular cop then, right? We wouldn't have had reason to meet yet. Too bad."

Stiles shrugged. "What is he going to be, though? Is he going to be preternatural like me? Is that why he hasn't shown signs of anything yet? Preternaturals don't show any sign of their ability till they're seven. Is it the same for him?"

Laura returned his shrug. "There's some records on it, but they're so old that it's hard to tell. We'll just have to wait and see. What he does have is three kickass parents who aren't going to let anything happen."

"What if something happens to both of us? The two of us have had some close calls over the past few years. What happens then?"

Laura looked at him with an expression Stiles couldn't quite place. "Do you really think Derek would ever let anything happen to this child? Family is the most important thing in the world to him. Connor is as much his as he's either of ours."

Stiles gave her a look, but didn't say anything.

She continued. "You're still having trust issues. I don't blame you. I would too. I know nothing I say can magically make those go away. But I do think they'll get better. You'll both get through this and you'll be stronger because of it. Derek loves you and he loves Connor and he would never do anything to hurt either of you. It'll get better. I promise."

"I hope you're right," was all Stiles could answer.

"Of course I am."

They heard a doorbell sound from deep within the house.

"Oh crap. I forgot. I invited Peter here. We all need to talk."

Laura grimaced. "Well, stop moping and go say hi to Connor. I'll go let in my _dearest_ uncle." She paused in the doorway. "But maybe keep the kid away. We want him to grow up actually _liking_ werewolves." Her laugh echoed down the hallway.

* * *

When Stiles finally arrived, Laura and Peter were already glaring at each other over a pot of coffee.

"Well, it didn't take long for you both to start fighting."

"I don't particularly like being summoned without notice, especially by the two of you. _And_ my niece won't even serve me anything stronger than coffee."

Laura rolled her eyes. "You _know_ how he is, Stiles. I'm not wasting any of the good stuff on him. Plus, I don't know why he's here anyway."

Stiles sometimes wondered if the reason the President hadn't guessed that they were all family – or maybe just didn't care – was that Peter didn't actually seem to get along with any of his family members. Derek could barely stay in the same room with him for 5 minutes before they both changed into wolves and went at it. When Peter and Laura shared a room, unless there was urgent business to discuss, it often devolved into either a shouting match or silence and angry glares. Stiles hadn't actually asked Derek why he and Peter didn't get along and even Laura wouldn't explain what her problem with her uncle was.

Stiles poured himself a cup of coffee, figuring he would need it and then firmed up his resolve. "Can you both be completely serious for a moment?"

Both supernaturals turned to him, their expressions tightening.

"You both know I've been researching the assassination threat. It's led me to look into the Beacon Hills fire from twenty five years ago. I think there may be a connection of sorts."

Both looked intrigued. Stiles suddenly remembered Derek's words from months before, when they'd been in California. _The dewan probably would have helped. If he had been on this side of country, he might have done it all himself._ Stiles hadn't known Peter was Derek's uncle at the time, but it made sense now. This wasn't just Derek's mother and brother who died. It was Laura's mother and brother too. And Peter's sister and nephew.

Stiles continued. "I've heard from someone I sent to California. It seems there was someone here in New York who helped concoct the whole plot. A supernatural agent. You wouldn't know anything of this, would you?"

Both of them spoke at once.

"You don't think I—?"

"Are you accusing me-?"

"No, I don't. I know they were your family too and even if it wasn't your pack, it was still your family. Derek thinks it must be a vampire. I think it might be a ghost, which leaves the trail cold, of course."

Laura tapped her fingers lightly on the armrest of the couch. "I think your last option may be best."

"Werewolves?" Stiles looked at her.

"A werewolf, yes."

Not even Peter protested the idea.

Stiles looked thoughtful a moment. "An omega, I suppose, which leaves me in the same situation as the ghost. Most were killed by Blake."

Laura shook her head, looking unusually pensive. "No, I don't think so. If I had known there was a supernatural agent here at the time, I might have guessed this much sooner. Peter?"

For once, Peter seemed to agree with Laura.

Peter looked at Stiles. "I hate to agree, but it's possible. Stiles, you don't know what the local pack was like at that time. But we remember. The last Alpha wasn't right in the head."

"But even back then, the local pack was . . ." Stiles sat back, sentence unfinished.

"Newark."

Stiles mentally catalogued the Newark Pack members. Aside from his husband and Scott, _all of them_ were holdovers from the previous Alpha. "Jackson," he said finally. "I'd bet it was Jackson. He didn't like the idea of me investigating the past. Interrupted me the other day. I'll need to check the military records, of course, to find out if he was even in the country at the time."

Peter looked conflicted.

Laura merely nodded, her face hard. "Oh, I meant to tell you. I found out something about that scientist who worked for the Order you were investigating."

"How did you know about her?"

" _Please_ ," Laura gave him a look, once again adopting a frivolous attitude, although Stiles was sure it was mostly a façade right this moment. "Anyway, the chemical mixture she preferred for supernatural fires could only be started using specialized matches. They were carved with some intricate marking, similar to the ones on your bat."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "She had help?"

Laura nodded. "I believe so. Those matches, at least near here, really could only have been created by Alan Deaton."

* * *

Stiles barely glanced at the girl behind the counter as he made his way through the hidden door and downstairs to Lydia's lab.

Lydia looked, if possible, even more gaunt and unwell than when Stiles had last seen her.

"Lyds! Are you alright? Surely this new project can't be so vital that you need to get sick to finish it?"

The inventor smiled wanly but barely glanced up from her work, concentrating on some engine schematic on her computer screen.

Stiles thought perhaps his friend's intense focus on work was a necessary distraction from Deaton's terminal condition. The machine looked further along than when Stiles had last seen it.

"How do you plan to get it out of here?"

"Oh, it's only loosely assembled. I'll take it out in pieces. I've got a warehouse for the final construction."

The redhead stood, stretched, and turned to face Stiles full-on for the first time. She scrubbed her grease-covered hands with a rag and then came to stand in front of Stiles.

Stiles wondered if there wasn't something else wrong. "Has Liam been asking about his real mother again?"

Lydia had decided against telling such a young child how Allison died, considering how violent it was, not to mention that she was his biological mother.

Lydia's chin firmed. " _I_ am his real mother."

Stiles understood her defensiveness. "It must be hard, though, not telling him about Allison."

Lydia sighed. "Oh, Liam knows."

"Oh, really? How did he . . .?"

"I'd rather not talk about it." Her sharp tone indicated the end of the subject, so Stiles moved on.

"I actually wanted to ask you something else. I recently learned that Deaton used to make specially carved matches."

Lydia gave him an odd look.

"I think it was to create different kinds of magical fires."

Lydia suddenly nodded in understanding. "Oh, of course. When?"

"Twenty five years ago or so."

"Well, I was too young to remember much of that. We can try to talk to him or look through the records."

"Young?" Stiles asked. "I didn't realize you grew up with Deaton. I thought he became your mentor once you went off to school."

Lydia shook her head sadly. "No, he raised me. I lost my parents young. Although we're not actually related, I don't think, I've always considered him family."

Stiles suddenly felt even worse. Lydia wasn't just losing a friend. She was losing family.

"Deaton? Alan?" Lydia called out, ignoring Stiles's sympathetic expression.

A ghostly body shimmered out of a wall nearby. The specter was looking worse than last time, his form barely recognizable as human, misty with lack of cohesion. "Do I hear my name? Do I hear bells? Silver bells?"

"He has gone to poltergeist?" Stiles asked softly.

"Almost entirely. He has some lucid moments, so not completely lost to me. Go ahead and try." Lydia's voice was drawn with unhappiness.

"Excuse me, Formerly Deaton, do you remember an order for specialty matches? 25 years ago?" Stiles relayed some of the other details, but the ghost ignored him.

Lydia's face fell. "Let me go check his old records. I may have kept them when we moved."

While Lydia looked through a filing cabinet stuffed with papers, the ghost drifted back down to Stiles, as if drawn against his will. He was definitely beginning to lost control over noncorporeal cohesion.

"Preternatural!" he hissed. "Preternatural! What are you—Oh, oh, yes. You are the one who will stop it. Stop it all. You are."

Then he became distracted by something unseen. He swirled about, drifting away from Stiles, still muttering to himself. Stiles shook his head.

"Wrong track. Wrong track!" Deaton garbled out.

Lydia returned, walking right through Deaton she was so lost in thought. "Oh, sorry Alan. I'm sorry Stiles, but I can't find those records. Give me some time and I'll see what I can find later tonight. Is that okay?"

"Of course. Thanks for trying."

"And if you'll excuse me, I need to return to work."

Stiles nodded and left back through the shop.

* * *

When Stiles returned home, he'd barely opened the door before he was swept up in Derek's arm and shoved up against the wall, Derek's body flush against his own and Derek sniffing and nipping along his neck.

"Do you need to do this right here? I'm pretty sure at least some of the clavigers are around, if not part of the pack."

Derek ignored him to kiss him properly. Finally Stiles pushed on Derek, when he needed to take a breath.

"Are you okay?"

Derek looked slightly embarrassed. "I was worried. You were gone longer than I expected."

"I take it you didn't realize I'd leave Laura's."

Derek shook his head. "No. And then I ran into Peter of all people. He smelled like you." This was growled out in a very wolfish manner for a man whose contact with Stiles rendered him not a werewolf at that precise moment.

Stiles rolled his eyes and kissed Derek lightly on the cheek.

"I was at Lydia's. I think I might have found out some more. Laura and Peter think the New York agent might have been a Newark Pack member."

"What?"

Stiles patted Derek's arm. "Stay calm. Think logically. But wouldn't someone like Jackson take—"

Derek shook his head. "No, not Jackson. He would never—"

"But Peter said the previous Alpha was not right in the head. Could that have had something to do with it? If he ordered Jackson to—"

Derek's voice was sharp. "No. But the Alpha himself? That _is_ an idea. The man was mad. It can happen that way, especially to Alphas when we get too old. There's a reason, you know, that werewolves fight amongst ourselves. We shouldn't be allowed to live forever—we go a little funny. Or that's what the howlers sing of. Vampires do, too, if you ask me. I'd say you only need to look at Laura to see that, but she's always been that way . . ."

Stiles elbowed him to get back on topic.

"It can take on many forms. Sometimes it's quite harmless little esoteric things and sometimes not. His was not. He was brutal – a sadist. I think he might have been long before becoming a werewolf, but giving him both the urge and the power to carry it out was too much. He was much older than me. I'm not sure who thought it was a good idea to change him."

"The pack kept it a secret?"

Derek shrugged. "It's what you do."

Stiles looked down for a moment. "I am glad you killed him."

Derek nodded, letting go of his husband's hand, then standing and turning away, lost to his memories. "As am I. I've killed a lot of people – and a lot more are dead because of me – for the military, for the FBI, for my pack, and for challenge. Very rarely am I proud of it. He was a sadistic son of a bitch, though. I'm lucky I was just strong enough to kill him and he was just mad enough to make bad choices when we fought. He allowed himself to enjoy it too much."

Derek's head suddenly cocked—supernatural hearing making out some new sound that Stiles couldn't hear.

"Someone is outside."

Stiles turned towards the door.

* * *

 _The ghost was confused. He spent a good deal of his time confused. He was also alone. Everyone had gone, to the very last, so that he floated in his madness, losing his afterlife into silence. Threads of his true self were drifting away. And there was no friendly face to sit with him while he died a second time._

 _He remembered that there was something unfinished. Was it his life?_

 _He remembered there was something he still needed to do. Was it die?_

 _He remembered that there was something wrong. He had tried to fix it, hadn't he? What should he care for the living?_

 _Wrong, it was all wrong. He was wrong. And soon he wouldn't be. That was wrong too._


	9. Chapter 9

Looking out the window, Stiles saw Lydia walking up to their door. Before she could get there, though, Argent came up through the hallway.

"Derek, pack business."

Derek kissed the top of Stiles's head lightly and hurried off after Argent, leaving Stiles to see what Lydia was here for.

She didn't even pause for social niceties when he opened the door.

"I have that information you were looking for. About the matches." The redhead handed over an old notebook. "It's Alan's code, which I'm certain you could figure out eventually if you wished. But essentially it says that he only one order that year for that particular item. It didn't come through any suspicious channels. That's the odd part. It was a government order, out of New York, with funds originating in the Bureau of Unnatural Registry."

Stiles's mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut. He sighed. "Well, I suppose that puts the old Alpha at the top of my suspect list. He would have held my husband's position at the time."

Lydia looked entirely uninterested in Stiles's musing. Her present concerns must be outweighing any curiosity over the past. "I hope this will be helpful. When you're finished, can I have those back? I want to keep everything in order."

"Of course."

"Well, I hate to be so abrupt, but I need to get back."

"Of course. Please get some sleep, would you?"

"I'll rest when the souls do," quipped the scientist with a shrug before taking off.

Not a moment later, someone came rushing in crying, "Stiles! Come quick!"

The intrusion turned out to be Isaac, one of Laura's drones. He was overwrought and disheveled – conditions highly out of character for any of Laura's drones. One sleeve of Isaac's favorite jacket was torn.

"What's wrong?"

"We're under attack from a werewolf."

Stiles grabbed his bat. "Of course. Where is he?"

As quickly as possible, Stiles and Isaac raced next door.

The hallway in Laura's place was packed with concerned-looking men and women, several of them looking much worse than Isaac. They were milling about and talking in obvious trepidation, at a loss but eager to do something.

"Where is he?" Stiles asked over the noise.

"It's Laura! She's locked herself in!"

The group continued in a chorus of explanations and objections.

"She's gone and locked herself in the drawing room."

"What _that_ monster."

"I don't mean to question, but _really_!"

"Said she could handle it."

"For our own good, she said. Not to let anyone in."

"I'm not _anyone_." Stiles pushed his way through the throng of people. Finally he was faced with the door that led to Laura's favorite sitting room. He took a deep breath and knocked loudly with his baseball bat.

"Laura? It's Stiles. Can I come in?"

From behind the door came the sound of scuffling and possibly Laura's voice, but he couldn't hear anything specifically. Then he heard a loud crash. That was good enough for him and he went inside.

Stiles had witnessed a fight between a vampire and a werewolf before, but it had been inside a car and had rather rapidly relocated from carriage to road. Also, the opponents had genuinely been trying to kill each other. This was different.

Laura was locked in single combat with a werewolf. The wolf was definitely trying to kill her, jaws snapping and all his supernatural strength bent on the vampire's destruction. But Laura, while fighting the wolf off, did not seem to be enthusiastic about killing him. She seemed to be employing most evasive strategies, which only served to frustrate and anger the wolf.

The beast lunged for the vampire's neck and Laura dodged to the side, flicking out one arm in a blasé manner, as if flapping a handkerchief. It was a gesture that, for all its casualness, still lifted the werewolf up and entirely over the vampire's head to land on his back.

Stiles had never had the chance to observe Laura fight before. Of course, he knew Laura must be able to fight. She was fairly old and, as such, must be at least capable of combat. But this was like knowing, academically, that Laura's fat cat was capable of hunting mice—the actual execution of the task always seemed highly improbable and possible embarrassing for everyone involved.

Far from any awkwardness, though, Laura fought with a nonchalant lazy efficiency, as though she had all the time in the world on her side. Which, Stiles supposed she did. Her advantage was speed, eyesight, and dexterity. The wolf had strength, smell, and sound to rely on, but he was inexperienced. The werewolf didn't have an Alpha's skill, either, which Derek had once described as fighting with soul. No, this wolf was moon mad. His jaws snapped and his claws speared surfaces.

It would have been an entirely uneven match except that Laura was really trying not to hurt Scott.

Because that was who it was: Scott, deep chocolate brown fur and all.

"How did you get out of the dungeon?"

No one answered him, of course.

Scott charged Laura. The vampire seemed to flash spontaneously from one side of the room to the other, leaving the werewolf to complete his leap with no victim at the end of it. Scott landed on a chair, overturning it so that its legs stuck up.

The werewolf noticed Stiles's presence first. His nostrils flared. His hairy head swiveled around to cast a yellow-eyed glare in her direction. There was none of Scott's gentleness in those eyes, only the need to maim, feast, and kill.

Laura was only second behind noticing that they had company. "Why, Stiles, dear, how nice of you to drop by."

Stiles played along. "Well, I had nothing better to do and I did hear you needed help entertaining an unexpected guest."

The vampire gave a low chuckle. "As you see. Our company is a _tad_ overwrought. I think he could use some help."

While this was taking pace, Scott charged at Stiles. He barely had time to arm the dart on his bat before Laura interceded, protecting him gallantly.

She took the brunt of the attack. Scott's claws scraped down the vampire's legs, gouging deep into muscle. Old black blood seeped out. At the same time, the werewolf's jaws locked around Laura's upper arm, biting clean through the meatiest part. The pain must have been phenomenal, but the vampire merely shook the wolf off. Even as Stiles watched, Laura's wounds began to heal.

Scott launched himself at the vampire once more, and together the grappled. Laura was always just one second faster and much craftier so that even with all the predatory advantages afforded by the werewolf state, Scott could not break the vampire's hold.

The vampire managed to use grip and speed to lever the wolf off of her and hurl him across the room, away from Stiles. Scott landed against the wall and slid down, taking several painting with him. He crashed to the floor, the painting now lying amidst shards of glass and gilt frames. He shook himself and stumbled dizzily to his feet.

Stiles fired one of his darts. It struck home and the werewolf collapsed back. He seemed to wobble, losing control of bits of himself, but then, quicker than any vampire Stiles had shot, fought against the effects of the drug and regained his feet. He wondered if Lydia's last batch of poison wasn't as effective or if it simply didn't work as well against werewolves.

Laura flitted to one side, catching the wolf's attention and directing his next charge away from Stiles.

Stiles said, deciding on a new tactic, "If you think you can hold him steady, I may be able to grab hold."

"Of course, darling."

Scott hit Laura broadside, and in the same movement, the vampire wrapped bother her arms and legs around the wolf. Laura used the wolf's momentum to tumble them both to the carpet. She got one elbow around Scott's muzzle, her hand closing firmly over the nose.

Stiles knew the vampire would not be able to pin the werewolf for very long. In the end, Scott was stronger and would break free, but Laura did have him momentarily confused.

Stiles made to lean over them both, but in an effort to avoid Scott's flailing limbs, lost his balance. He landed atop both supernatural creatures, ensuring they both turned mortal.

It was a very odd sensation and Stiles was uncomfortably aware of Scott's body changing from wolf to human. Scott howled with the pain of it, directly into Stiles's ear. A howl that turned into a scream of agony, then a whimper of remembered suffering, and finally a small snuffle.

After Laura had extracted herself and Stiles and Scott stood and sat on a couch, a blanket covering Scott, Stiles gave Scott a long look.

Before he could say anything, though, Derek walked in.

He strode across the room and bent to give Stiles a light kiss on the top of the head. "I thought I might find you here. And Scott too. Are you both okay?"

Stiles looked to his husband's Beta, who came trailing in behind. "The pack business that took you away?"

Argent nodded. "He led us on a chase before we traced him here." He tapped his nose, indicating the method of tracking.

"How did he get out?"

Argent tilted his head, which was as good as he would get to admitting that he had no idea.

Stiles nudged his husband in Scott's direction. He shot Stiles a brief glance and then crouched down in front of a half-naked man. It was a very servile position for an Alpha.

"Why did you run here?"

Scott looked up at the ceiling and then back down again. He swallowed, nervous. "I don't know. Some instinct. I'm sorry, but this is still home to me."

Derek looked at his sister, predator to predator. Then he turned back to his pack member.

"It has been months and still you're not settling. I know this was not the end you wanted, but it is the end you have been given. Somehow we must make this work." Derek took a deep breath. "How can we make this easier?"

Scott looked startled to be asked. "Maybe," he ventured, "maybe I could stay in town? Permanently?"

Derek frowned, glancing at Laura. "Is that a good idea?"

Laura stood as thought totally disinterested in the entire conversation. She walked to the other side of the room and started down at her torn paintings.

Argent stepped in. "Maybe he'd benefit from a distraction."

Derek nodded. "What about BUR? After all, you have contacts around the city that could prove useful."

Scott looked intrigued.

Argent came around to stand by Stiles, next to his crouching husband. His normally passive face showed genuine concern for the new pack member, and it was clear that he had put thought into how Scott might be better integrated.

"We could come up with a suitable range of duties. Plus, Erica will be on desk duty, so we'll need someone to help out."

Stiles looked, really looked, at his husband's second for the first time in their acquaintance. At the way he stood, shoulders not too straight, gaze not too direct. At the way he dressed, with studied carelessness, but not too careless. There was just enough not perfect about his appearance as to make him forgettable. Chris Argent was the type of man who could stand in the center of a group and no one would remember he was there, except that the group would stay together because of him.

And then, right there, holding on the hand of a half-naked werewolf, Stiles discovered the piece of the puzzle he'd been missing.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Trigger warning for _very vague_ references to past abuse. I'm talking, super, super vague. If you want to skip it, though, you should be okay to continue reading the story without missing much. Stop reading at the italicized part that starts with "February 2" and begin again with the sentence that starts "Stiles turned the slim volume" and the should cover it.

* * *

"It was you!"

It had taken well over two hours to configure the basement of the new house to hold Scott for the remainder of the evening without damage to anything, most importantly Scott. They would have to devise a better long-term solution if he was going to stay there permanently. They left Derek coaching him through the change, arms wrapped around him, gruff voice keeping him calm.

Stiles had pigeon-hold Argent and practically dragged him into a back room. Now he was busy waving his baseball bat wildly in his direction.

"You're the agent from BUR! How stupid of me not to have seen it sooner! You rigged the whole thing back then. The whole Beacon Hills fire. But that was the problem, wasn't it? It was only supposed to be an _attempt_. It was never meant to succeed. The point was to convince the Beacon Hills Pack to turn against their Alpha, to give him a reason to leave. You knew he'd come here. You knew his sister and his uncle were here. You needed Derek to come to New York so he could challenge the old Alpha. The Alpha who had gone mad."

Argent turned away, walking to the other side of the room, his soft boots making no noise on the carpet. His head was bent only slightly. He spoke to the wall. "You have no idea what a blessing it is, to have a capable Alpha."

"And you are Beta. You would do whatever it took to keep your pack together. Even arrange to steal another pack's leader. Does my husband know what you did?"

Argent stiffened.

Stiles answered his own question. "No, of course he doesn't know. He needs to trust you. He needs you to be his reliable second just as much as you need him as leader. Telling him would defeat the very action you took; it would disturb the cohesion of your pack. Hell, he'd probably kill you."

Argent turned to face him. His eyes were tired, but there was no pleading in them. "Are _you_ going to tell him?"

"That you were a double agent? That you destroyed his relationship with his old pack? That you got his mother and his brother _killed_? To steal him? I don't know." Stiles was suddenly exhausted by the events of the past week. "It would destroy him, I think. Treachery from his Beta, a second time. And I don't know what good would come from it."

He paused, looking him full in the face. "But to keep this information from Derek, to share in your deception? You see where that puts me, don't you?"

Argent avoided Stiles's direct gaze, wincing slightly. "I had no choice. You must see that? Derek was the only werewolf in the US capable of winning. When Alphas go bad, it's sickening. All that concentrated attention to pack cohesion and all that protective energy turns rotten—no one is safe. As Beta, I could shield the others, but only for so long. Eventually, I knew his psychosis would leak out, encompassing them as well. Such a thing can drive an entire pack to madness. We don't talk about it. The howlers don't sing of it. But it occurs. I am not trying to excuse myself, you understand, simply explain."

Stiles was still stuck on the horror of having such knowledge when his husband did not. "Who else knows? Who else knew?"

The door crashed open.

"For God's sake. Doesn't anybody knock?" cried Stiles, whirling to face the intruder, bat definitely at the ready.

It was Major Jackson Whittemore.

"And what are _you_ doing here?" Stiles's tone was far from welcoming, but his bat relaxed into a softer position.

"Scott is missing!"

"Yes, you're late. He turned up next door, go into a fight with Laura, and now Derek has him downstairs."

Jackson looked puzzled, but Stiles abruptly lost interest in dealing with his husband's Gamma. He turned back to Argent, who was looking cowed. "Does _he_ know?"

"Me? Know what?" Jackson's ice-blue eyes were the picture of innocence. But his eyelids flickered as he took in Stiles's militant attitude and Argent's intimidated demeanor, the latter as out of character as the former was standard. Everyone was accustomed to Argent skulking in the background, but he always did it confidently, not with shame.

Jackson looked back and forth between the two, but instead of leaving them, he turned, slammed the door, and wedged a seat under the handle.

He approached Stiles. " _What do I know?_ " He asked as if he could predict Stiles's answer.

Stiles looked at Argent.

Jackson cocked his head. "Is this about the past? I told you no good could come of your meddling."

Argent raised his head, smelling the air. Then he turned to look at Jackson.

For the first time, Stiles realized the two men were probably old friends. Sometimes enemies, of course, but only the manner of those who have been too long in each other's company, possibly centuries. These two had known each other far longer than either had known Derek.

"You know?" Argent said to the Gamma.

Jackson nodded, all patrician beauty and aristocratic superiority as compared to Argent's middle-class inoffensiveness.

The Beta looked at his hands. "Did you know all along?"

Jackson sighed, his fine face becoming suffused with a brief moment of agony. So brief, Stiles thought for a moment he had imagine it. "What kind of Gamma do you take me for?"

Argent laughed, a huff of pain. "A mostly absentee one." There was no bitterness to the statement, simply fact. Jackson was often away fighting in the military. "I didn't think you realized."

"Realized what, exactly? That it was occurring? Or that you were taking the brunt of it so he'd stay off the rest of us? Who do you think kept the others from finding out what was really going on? I didn't understand you and Zee—you know I didn't—but that doesn't mean that I approved of what the Alpha was doing either."

Stiles's previous self-righteousness disintegrated under Jackson's comments. There was more to Argent's manipulations than he'd realized. "Zee? Who is Zee?"

Argent twisted his lips into a little smile. Then he reached into his pocked—he always seemed to have everything he needed in one pocket or another—and pulled out a tiny leather-covered journal, navy blue. It looked achingly familiar.

He walked softly across the room and handed it to Stiles. "I have the rest as well, from when you were born on. She left them to me on purpose. I wasn't keeping them intentionally away from you."

Stiles could think of nothing whatsoever to say. The silence stretched until finally she asked, "Why from when I was born?"

"I don't think she wanted your father to find out about you, if she could help it." The Beta's face was a study in impassivity. "But this one was her last. I like to keep it with me. A reminder." A whisper of a smile crossed that deadpan face, the kind of smile one sees at funerals. "She didn't have an opportunity to finish it."

Stiles flipped the journal open, glancing over the scribbled text within. The little book was barely half full. Lines jumped out at him, details of a friendship that he—and he was sure his father—never knew existed. Only as he read it did the full scope of the ramifications come into focus.

 _February 2—for a while he walked with a limp, but would not tell me why,_

said one entry. Another, from the following spring, read:

 _We talked about going to the movies tomorrow. He won't be permitted to, I'm sure. We both pretend he will, though and that he'll keep me company while John is at work._

For all the tight control of the penmanship, Stiles could read the tension and the fear behind his mother's words. As the entries progressed, some of her sentences turned his stomach with their brutal honesty.

 _The bruises are on his face now and so deep sometimes I wonder if they will ever heal, even with all his supernatural abilities._

He looked up at Argent, attempting to appreciate all the implications. Trying to see bruises twenty-five years gone. From the stillness in his face, he supposed they might be there—well hidden, but there.

"Read the last entry," he suggested gently.

 _It is full moon tonight. He is not going to stop by tonight. Tonight all his wounds will be self-inflicted. He used to let me help him. Now none of them can be sure unless he is there to help. He is holding their whole world together merely by enduring. I will do anything to stop his suffering. Anything. In the end, it comes to one thing. I hunt. It is what I am best at. It is what I was born to do._

Stiles closed the book. His face was wet. "You're the one she's writing about. The one who was being hurt."

Argent said nothing. He didn't need to respond. Stiles was not asking a question.

Stiles looked away from him, finding the pattern of the wallpaper quite fascinating. "The previous Alpha really was a monster."

Jackson strode over to Argent and placed a hand on his arm. No more sympathy than that. It seemed sufficient. "Chris didn't even tell Zee the worst of it."

Argent said softly, "He was old. Things go fuzzy with Alphas when they get old."

"Yes, but he—"

Argent looked up. "Unnecessary, Jackson."

Stiles turned the small slim volume over in his hand—the end of his mother's life. "What really happened to her, at the end?"

"She went after our Alpha." Argent said softly.

Jackson seemed to feel further explanation was necessary. "She was good, your mother, very good. She'd been trained by the Templars for one purpose and one purpose only—to hunt down and kill supernatural creatures. But even she couldn't take on an Alpha. Even he was still an Alpha with a pack at his back."

Argent rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I told her not to, of course. Such a waste. But she was always one to pick and choose listening to me. Zee was too much an Alpha herself."

Stiles thought for the first time that Argent and Laura shared some mannerisms. They were both good at hiding their emotions. To a certain extent, this was to be expected in vampires, but in werewolves. . . Argent's reserve was practically flawless.

Argent said, "Your mother's death taught me one thing. That something needed to be done about our Alpha. That if I had to bring down another pack to do it, so be it. At the time, there were only two wolves in the US capable of killing him. The dewan and—"

Stiles filled in the rest of his sentence. "Derek Hale. So it wasn't simply a change of leadership you were after; it was self-preservation."

One corner of Argent's mouth quirked upward. "It was revenge. I am still a werewolf. It took me nearly four years to plan. I'll admit that's a vampire's style. But it worked."

"Did you love my mother?"

"In a way. In three hundred years, I think she was the greatest friend I've ever had. Things are never good when immortals love someone. Mortals end up dead, one way or another, and we are left alone again. Why do you think the pack is so important? Or the hive, for that matter? It is not simply a vehicle for safety; it is a vehicle for sanity, to stave off loneliness. The reason we don't like omegas and roves is not just custom, it is based on this."

Stiles nodded, his mind whirling. He didn't know what to say. Finally he took a deep breath. "So, back to the crisis at hand. I don't suppose either of you is currently planning an assassination are you?"

Two almost simultaneous head shakes met that question.

"Are you telling me I've been on the wrong track all this time?"

The werewolves looked at each other, neither of them willing to risk his wrath.

"And it's entirely coincidental that the same scientist helped with both?" Stiles sighed and extracted the notebook Lydia had given him. "No connection between the fire and this attempt? Just the same scientist who possible became a ghost who delivered a warning to me?"

"I guess so."

"I don't like coincidences."

"I can't really help with that," was Jackson's very useless reply.

Stiles sighed again. "Back to the beginning, I suppose."

As Stiles made to leave, Argent touched his arm lightly. Stiles had never had the opportunity to see him mortal before. He looked about the same as he did when immortal—perhaps a few more lines around his eyes—but he was still the same man.

" _Are_ you going to tell Derek?"

Stiles turned around slowly and leveled a decided glare in his direction. "I really don't know. I understand why you did it. And I know that telling him now would do more bad than good. But I don't like keeping secrets from my husband, either. So, no, I don't really know."

He had barely made it down the hall when Jackson caught up with him.

"Stiles, can I talk to you for a moment."

Stiles sighed heavily, but stopped.

"I wanted to say, about Chris, he's different than the rest of us wolves, you realize? Your mother was the love of his life, and we immortals don't say such a thing lightly."

Stiles made to interject, but Jackson stopped him.

"I don't mean that in a romantic way. I mean that she was his best friend – his truest friend. I don't think he has had a friend like that since or really had one before. He loved her just as much – or more – than he could any lover he might have."

Stiles frowned. "I'm not sure what you want me to do with that information."

Jackson panicked slightly. "I'm just pleading for leniency. I couldn't confide this to Derek and you are also our Alpha."

Stiles rubbed his forehead wearily. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"No. Have you forgotten? Tomorrow is full moon."

"Dammit. Later, then. I promise not to make any decisions about Argent without thinking everything through."

Jackson clearly knew when to retreat from a battle. "Thank you."

Stiles tumbled into bed exhausted. So exhausted, in fact that he didn't awaken when his husband later crawled in next to him. His big, strong husband who had spent the night holding onto a boy afraid of change. Who had coached that boy through a pain Derek could no longer remember. Who had forced Scott to realize he must give up what he used to love or he would lose all of his remaining choices. His big, strong husband who curled up close against his back and cried, not because of what Scott suffered but because he, Derek Hale, had caused that suffering.

* * *

Stiles awoke early the next evening. Derek had slept pressed against him the whole day through and his face was rough with a full day's growth. He smoothed his hands along Derek's massive shoulders and chest, resting fingertips at the base of his throat for a moment, before petting him as if he were in wolf form. He trailed his hands back over Derek's chest and then down along his sides.

A rumbling snuffle of amusement met this action.

"That tickles." But Derek did not make any move to prevent Stiles's continued actions. Instead, he picked up his own hand and began smoothing it over Stiles's stomach.

Derek grinned after a moment and caught one of Stiles's hands, bringing it in for a kiss, all prickly whiskers and soft lips.

Stiles snuggled against him. "Did you manage to settle Scott?"

Derek shrugged, an up and down of muscle under Stiles's ear. "I spent the remainder of last night with him. I think that helped mitigate the trauma. It is hard to tell. Regardless, by this point, I should be able to sense him."

"Sense? What do you mean sense?"

"Hard to explain. Do you know the sensation you get when there is someone else in the room, even if you can't see them? For Alphas, pack members are like that. Whether we are in the same room or not, we know the pack is there. Scott isn't a part of that yet. So he isn't a part of my pack."

Stiles was struck with a moment of inspiration. "You should encourage him and Argent to spend more time together."

"What? Why?"

"I think they would get along. I think Argent needs a friend—someone he can trust. And I think Scott needs someone who isn't quite as, well, _werewolf_ as the rest of you."

Derek obviously decided he didn't want to delve into the subject, so he grappled for a means of changing it. Only to recall exactly what night it was.

"Dammit. It's the full moon, isn't it?"

"It is. Good thing we're all cozied up together, isn't it?"

Derek pursed his lips, trying to decide what to do. He had not intended to sleep the whole day through. He had wanted to be back on his way to the dungeons before moonrise. But, Stiles had also refused to be with him at night on a full moon since they'd returned from Europe. He sighed. He needed to take care of his pack. As much as he hated it, his marriage would have to wait.

"I left orders to Chris and Jackson to take Scott back to Newark before sunset, but I really should get there myself."

"Too late now—the moon is up."

He grunted, annoyed with himself. "Would you mind coming with me? Downstairs might hold a new wolf, but it won't hold me. And I should be with him, tonight of all nights. Even not in my right mind myself, my presence will be helpful."

"Yes, but I won't be able to stay. I need to return some documents to Lydia and get back to questioning ghosts. I shouldn't have allowed myself to get sidetracked by history."

"Please take some precautionary measures or something?"

Stiles grinned. "Oh, but that is so boring."

Derek growled.

Stiles kissed the tip of his nose. "I'll be good. I promise."

"Why is it that I am always most terrified when you say that?"

* * *

 _Above the ghost, under a full moon, the living celebrated being alive._

 _Mortals trotted about in shoes and dresses made to limit the movement, fashion for prey. They drank and smoked, behaving like the food they were. Silly, thought the ghost, that they couldn't see such simple comparisons._

 _Immortals saluted the full moon with blood, some in crystal glasses, and others by tearing into meat and howling. Aside from the ancient Greeks and their long-ago offerings, there was no blood for ghosts. Not anymore._

 _The ghost could hear himself crying. Not the himself that still remembered what being himself meant. Some other part of him, the part that was fading._

 _He wished he had studied more of the nature of the supernatural and less on the defense of it. He wished his passions had taken him into a learned that would allow him to tolerate the sensation of disanimus with dignity. But there was no dignity in death._

 _And he was alone. Perhaps that was not so bad, under such circumstances?_

 _Sill, where were the academic journals that taught a man how to listen to himself die?_


	11. Chapter 11

New York at full moon was a different city entirely from any other time of the month. For this one night, out of default or desire, the vampires ruled. Hives throughout the country hosted parties, but the biggest occurred in the largest cities and none were quite so spectacular as in Manhattan. Rovers were at liberty to roam undisciplined and unmonitored. It wasn't that the werewolves necessarily kept vampires in check, just that with guaranteed werewolf absence, the vampires had the autonomy to be a little bit more toothsome than normal. It was also an excuse for non-supes to dance the night away. Or, in the case of the conservatives who wanted nothing to do with immortals, to stay shut-in.

It was always a challenging night for BUR. Several core staff were werewolves. A number of clavigers were also employed. All were conspicuous by their absence. Top that off with the vampire agents away enjoying their revels, and the full moon left the Bureau understaffed and unhappy about it. There were a few contract ghosts paying very close attention to what went on during the extravagances, but they couldn't exactly provide physical enforcement if such became necessary. That left the mortal agents at the front lines during moon time. Of course, the potentate's drones were also out and about, but they couldn't be trusted to report their findings to BUR, even if the rumors were true and Derek Hale was sleeping in Laura's closet.

Stiles liked the full moon – he always had. There was something irrepressibly celebratory about it. New York came alive with excitement and dark ancient mysteries. Admittedly, there were fangs and blood as well, but the full moon also brought with it bright lights and fireworks and joyful screams.

Stiles was slowly making his way through traffic when he turned his head to watch a woman on a motorcycle next to him. Suddenly, he realized he knew who the woman was. Then she looked at him and recognized him as well. She motioned for him to lower his window.

"Miss Tandy?"

"Call me Braeden! Can you pull over ahead? There's a bar up there. I need to talk to you."

Stiles looked at her warily, but nodded. The bar she pointed out was one he knew – it was well-lit and he was sure at least one of Laura's drones would be inside. He should be safe there. Plus, Braeden Tandy was only a drone to the Queen of Manhattan, she was not a vampire herself.

They walked in and found a small table in the back corner. Stiles was pleased to notice Isaac cheerfully chatting up a pretty blonde at the bar. Laura's drones really were everywhere.

"What did you need, Braeden?"

"Oh well, there has been a breach of social etiquette and it was only when I saw you on the street that I realized it."

 _A breach of social etiquette?_ thought Stiles. _Vampires._ He almost rolled his eyes, but tried to maintain composure and she continued.

"I know Miss Morrell would want me to rectify the situation. You must believe, we understood that on full-moon nights you were otherwise occupied or we should never have neglected you."

"What are you talking about?"

"This." She handed Stiles an embossed invitation to a full-moon party taking place later that night.

The werewolves and vampires always invited each other to their respective festivities. The Manhattan vampires, out of tether and hive bounds, had never been able to visit Newark Castle, and the queen herself, of course, could not leave her house. But Derek and Stiles had visited her on several occasions, always staying exactly as long as was polite and no longer. Vampire hives were not comfortable places for werewolves to be, particularly Alpha werewolves, but Derek felt he needed to keep up some sort of truce.

Stiles took the invitation reluctantly. "Well, thank you, but I have a lot to do, and at such late notice, I'll try to attend, but—"

Braeden continued making excuses for him. "I understand perfectly and Miss Morrell will too. But I didn't want you to think we were slighting you in any way. Case in point, I have been instructed to inform you, should we encounter each other, that we are officially delighted with your new living arrangements and wish it to be known outright that there are no hard feelings. Or"—she paused delicately—"consequences."

 _As if they were not the ones who had been actively trying to kill us!_

Stiles, in a huff, said pointedly, "Likewise. Perhaps next time if you had told me why you were all trying to kill us from the start, much unnecessary chaos could have been avoided."

Braeden just smiled pleasantly.

"Well, I need to get going."

She nodded. "Perhaps we will enjoy the pleasure of your company later tonight, Mr. Stilinski-Hale. The President of the United States is in town. He was invited. I am told he may attend as well."

 _Unlikely_ , thought Stiles. The President never attended any kind of supernatural parties – not even fundraising when running for election. Had to keep the conservatives happy somehow. Although he had forgotten the President was even in New York. There was some United Nations thing or another that required his presence. Stiles didn't really keep up with politics that didn't involve him personally. He had enough on his plate.

"Perhaps you'll see me. Good night." Stiles waited till he had turned around and was walking back out of the bar to roll his eyes. _Vampires._

* * *

It was early still, so far as the night's festivities were concerned. No establishment of worth in all of New York would dare be closed on such an evening. Thus, Stiles was unsurprised to find Lydia's shoe shop not only open but also packed full of shoppers. Stiles was surprised to find that Lydia herself was not in residence. For all her more atypical pursuits, the inventor normally made a point of putting in an appearance in her shop on busy nights.

In her absence, Stiles looked around confused. How was he supposed to make his way to Lydia's underground lab without someone seeing him? He respected Lydia's wish to keep the lab, its activities, and its entrance a secret from the general public. But with what seemed to be at least half of said general public in the shop, Stiles was not quite sure how he was supposed to speak with the redhead. Stiles was many things, but stealthy was not one of them.

He made his way to the counter.

"Excuse me?"

"I'll be right with you, sir," chirruped the girl who stood there. She was all bright chatter and false friendliness, but her back remained quite firmly presented. She was busy rustling through stacks of shoeboxes.

"I don't mean to interrupt you, but this is urgent."

"Yes sir, I'm sure it is. I apologize for the delay, but as you can see, we are a little understaffed. If you wouldn't mind waiting just one moment."

"I need to see Lydia."

"Yes, yes. I know. _Everyone_ wishes to see Miss Martin, but she is unavailable this evening. Perhaps someone else can help."

"No, it must be Lydia. I have some documents to return."

"Return? Oh did the shoes not work? I _am_ sorry."

"Not shoes. Nothing to do with shoes." Stiles was getting impatient. He understood. Working in a shop was not fun and customers were regularly rude, but he had a lot to do tonight.

"Yes, certainly. If you'll just wait, I'll be with you in a moment."

Stiles sighed. This was getting him nowhere. He contemplated his situation for a moment and came to a decision. Given that any kind of stealth was out of the question, he must opt for his only alternative—making a fuss.

"Excuse me."

The same girl was still rummaging behind the counter. Really, how long did it take to find a shoebox?

" _Yes_ , sir. I will be right with you."

Stiles reached down inside himself for his most regal, difficult, aristocratic nature. He didn't have any, so he did his best impression of Jackson. "I will _not be ignored_."

That got the girl's attention. She actually turned around to see who he was.

"Do you know who I am?"

The girl gave him the full once-over. "Stiles Hale?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. Nobody who didn't know him personally every got the hyphenation right. It was the ridiculous society section of the paper. They had just started calling him "Hale" once he'd married Derek.

"Yes."

"I had been warned to keep an eye out for you."

"Warned? Warned! Were you? Well, now I am here and . . . and . . ." He floundered. It was hard to be angry when he really wasn't. "I need to speak to Lydia."

"I told you, sir, and I do apologize, but she is not available this evening, even for you."

"Unacceptable!" Stiles was rather pleased with both the word choice and his execution. Very commanding. _That's what living with werewolves will do for you_. "I'll have you know I have been swindled! Absolutely swindled. I will have none of it."

By this time, Stiles and the embarrassed looking girl had attracted the attention of the entire store.

"I came here looking for a present for _Laura Hale_. She is in desperate need of—" He paused, glancing around frantically and grabbed the nearest, most outrageous shoes he could find. "—these shoes! And I can't find them in her size!"

"Well, you see, we are out of most of the sizes. If you want to order them—"

"No, I would _not_ like to." _Oh, Jackson would be proud of this performance_ , Stiles was sure. Or possibly angry, but Stiles cared less about that. "I would like a pair of these right now." Stiles contemplated stamping his foot, but that would probably be excessively dramatic, even for this audience.

Stiles held up the offending shoe. "You see?"

The girl did see. So, in fact, did all the shoppers present. What they saw was that Stiles Hale ( _Stilinski-Hale_ , Stiles would have stressed if he could read their minds), had come to this very shop to buy these bright canary yellow shoes for vampire socialite _Laura Hale_. Stiles Hale, husband to Derek Hale, was known to fraternize with the trendsetters and fashion leaders of the city. He may not care much for his clothes, but if he was buying shoes for Laura, she must approve. If Laura approved, then the vampires approved, and if the vampires approved, well, that was it: these shoes must be _it_.

Suddenly, every woman in the shop had to have a pair of the shoes. They all stopped whatever they were doing to swarm over the shoes. Stiles was surrounded by a gaggle of young women, all grabbing for shoes, squealing as they tried to snatch their own sizes.

The shop's employees obligingly descended as well, notepads out, trying to convince the women not to purchase right away, but to place an order for the appropriate size and perhaps in multiple colors.

In the resulting chaos, Stiles extracted himself and lurched to the back of the shop. Here, in a shadowed corner was the entranced to a hidden elevator. He activated it and left the shop above him. He didn't even stumble when the elevator hit the ground with a thud.

He walked down the passageway and knocked lightly on the lab door.

Silence.

Figuring Lydia probably could not hear his knock, he let himself in.

It took him a long moment of scanning over all the piles of machinery, but he eventually became convinced that Lydia was not there. Not was her new contraption. The shop employee had not lied to him, at least. He felt even worse about the mess he'd left upstairs. Maybe he'd convince Lydia to raise the girl's salary.

Lydia was definitely unavailable, though. Stiles chewed on his bottom lip. She had said something about relocating in order to put together her latest project. Stiles debated trying to remember where and following her there or simply leaving the papers behind. _They'll probably be safe enough_. He placed them on a nearby table and was about to leave when he heard something.

Stiles had no werewolf's hearing to be able to note some strange noise among the rattling, humming, hissing clatter. Even without the redhead there, some machines never stopped. But he definitely heard another sound, an underlying keen that might, or might not, be human in origin.

It might also be a very excited mouse.

Stiles contemplated not getting involved. He also contemplated not using his bat—after all, shutting down all those computers like that could probably break something. In Stiles's case, though, contemplation was never signified by more than a pause before performing the action he would have taken, contemplation or not.

He activated the magnetic disruptor and silence descended. He listened for the one sound that didn't stop.

It came, a low keening wail, and Stiles realized that he was familiar with such a noise. Not a sound made by the living, but still a sound _made_ rather than a sound _manufactured_. It was the intermittent sharp cry of second-death, and Stiles had a pretty good guess as to who was suffering it.


	12. Chapter 12

"Formerly Deaton? Is that you?" Stiles tried to make his voice gentle.

The silence stretched and then the faraway screaming came again.

There was something sad about the sound, as though it were that much worse to die a second time.

"I will not harm you. I promise. I can bring you peace, if you would like, or simply be here with you. I promise, no touch unless you request it. Don't be afraid. There's nothing I could do. I don't even know where she keeps your body. Please, I need your help."

The ghost materialized into existence to Stiles's left. Or, more properly, he materialized as much as he was able into existence, which wasn't all that much anymore. Bits of him were now drifting off in spiraling fuzzy tendrils. His shape was no longer human, but more cloudlike.

"Effervescent!" screamed the ghost once he had found his voice. "Why are you here? Where is Lydia? What has she done? What have you done? Where is the machine? What. What? Who is that screaming? Is that me? How can that be me _and_ this be me, talking to you? You. Effervescent? What are you doing here? Where is Lydia?"

It was like some broken record destined to repeat the same few lines over and over again. The ghost was caught up in a loop. Periodically, he interrupted himself to cry out, a long low moan of agony to accompany the wail of second-death. Whether it was the paint of the spirit or pain in truth was difficult to tell, but it sounded to Stiles not unlike Scott shifting into a werewolf.

Stiles straightened up. Before him lay his duty, staring him in the face. That didn't occur very often. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have asked Lydia for permission, but the inventor was gone. She had abandoned her mentor, her uncle, whatever he was, in this state. The ghost was suffering.

"Formerly Deaton," he said politely, "I am in the unique position to offer you . . . I mean, I could . . . Oh, screw it, would you like an exorcism?"

"Death? Death! Are you asking me if I want death, effervescent? To not exist at all." The ghost twirled again, spiraling all the way up to the ceiling. Floating far above, the ghost became contemplative. "I have served my time. I have taught. Not many get to say that. I have helped defend people and taught them to defend themselves. And I have done it after I died as well." He paused and drifted back down. "Not that I like children all that much. What can a ghost do? When my Lydia, my lovely intelligent girl, became enamored of that awful woman. All I taught her was gone. Then the boy. Just like his mother. Devious. Who thought I should end up teaching him as well? And now. Look what it has all come to. Death. My death, and an effervescent to help me along. Unnatural. All of it. Preternatural boy, what good are you to me?"

"I can give you peace." Stiles's eyebrow was quirked. Ghosts near poltergeist really did ramble.

"I don't want peace. I want hope. Can you give me that?"

Sympathy, so far as Stiles was concerned, only went so far, at least right at this moment. "Okay, then, if you don't want my help, I need to get going. Try not to wail too loudly or they'll call BUR. They have enough to do on a full moon."

The ghost floated back down. For a moment, he collected himself. "No, wait. I will . . . What will I? Oh, yes, I will show you. Follow me."

He made his way to the corner of a massive room, next to a large barrel that rested on its side. As he neared the barrel, the ghost became more and more substantial, until he was almost his old self—the ghost Stiles had first met nearly a year ago.

The keening wail was much louder here, although it still seemed to be coming from some distance away, with an echo as though emanating from the bottom of a mine.

"I'm sorry. I can't stop that," said the ghost at Stiles's wince.

"No, you wouldn't be able to do that. Your time has come."

The ghost nodded. "Lydia gave me a long afterlife. Few ghosts are so fortunate. They usually only have months. I have had years."

"Years?"

"Years."

"She's a genius." Stiles was impressed.

"Yet she loves too frequently and too easily. I couldn't teach her that lesson. So much like her father, I think. And that son of hers."

Stiles thought of his own son. "Everyone should love their child."

"Even if he is a wild creature born to another woman?"

Stiles thought of Derek, then. "Especially then."

The ghost let out a dry laugh. "I can see why you and Lydia are friends."

It was thinking about Lydia and Allison and Liam that Stiles put everything together. Not fast enough, of course, because the wails were getting louder. Even a ghost such as Formerly Deaton, with such strength of character and mental fitness, could not resist his own demise when it was fated.

Stiles asked, "Is there something wrong with Lydia?"

"Yes." It was said in a hiss. The ghost was shaking, shivering in the air before him.

"That machine, the one she was building, it wasn't for the government, was it?"

"No." The ghost began spinning as he vibrated. The tendrils were back, drifting away, floating into the air.

"It's the kind of thing that could break into a building, isn't it? Even a well-protected one? Even with the best federal agents protecting it?"

"Yes. So unlike her, to build something brutish." The screaming was getting louder. "Right question, effervescent. _You aren't asking me the right question_. And we are almost out of time." His hand detached and wafted towards Stiles. "Effervescent? What are you? Why are you here? Where is Lydia?"

"It was _you_ who activated the ghost network, wasn't it? Did _you_ send me the message? The one about the assassination?"

"Yessss," hissed the ghost.

"But why would Lydia want to kill the—"

Stiles was cut off mid-question as Formerly Deaton burst apart. The ghost exploded noiselessly. Parts of him drifted off in all directions at once, a spread of white mist wafting all around and through the machinery of the lab.

Stiles couldn't help himself; he let out a scream of shock. There was no going back now. Formerly Alan Deaton had gone full poltergeist. It was time for Stiles to perform an exorcism.

Stiles approached the barrel and inspected it closely. He was familiar with his friend's style and design aesthetic, so he looked for a hidden knob or handle. On the end of the barrel facing the wall, he found a small button. He pushed against it. With a faint clicking noise, the wood slid away, revealing a coffin-sized fish tank filled with the preserved body of Alan Deaton.

Stiles was caught by the genius of the invention. It was one of the great trials of ghostly employment that specters would stay sane only so long as their bodies were preserved, but they couldn't form a tether if the body was immersed fully in formaldehyde. Lydia had invented a way around that by having air bubbling through the formaldehyde to allow a tether, while still keeping the flesh submerged. No wonder the ghost had such a long after life.

But even this could not save a ghost in the end. Eventually the body decayed enough so that it could no longer hold the tether; the ghost would lose cohesion and succumb to second-death.

Stiles thought he might mention this tank to BUR. They would probably order a few for their more valuable ghosts. He wondered if the gas had something do with Deaton's explosive end.

Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be any way into the tank. Lydia clearly hadn't been planning on getting back in once she created it. So, Stiles did the only thing he could think of. He swung his bat at the glass.

After the second hit, the tank cracked and then broke, spilling liquid all over the floor and with it, a strong, suffocating scent. Stiles's eyes began burning and watering. Quickly, he reached out and touched the dead body's hand once, flesh to flesh, and just like that, it was over.

The wailing stopped. The body part wisps vanished.

He looked around at the mess, but he didn't have time to cleanup. He hoped they were still arguing about shoes upstairs, because he had no time for stealth. He must stop his friend from action. And, more importantly, he desperately needed to find out why. Why Lydia, a brilliant scientist, well-respected, and successful, would try to do something like attack the President of the United States?

* * *

Stiles remembered what Lydia had said about relocation, however he didn't actually know where the warehouse was located. Luckily, he knew some who probably had that information.

"Erica?" he almost shouted into his phone, trying to be heard over the noise of people outside.

"Stiles? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing. I was just wondering if you knew where the warehouse Lydia was renting out was located."

"Well, I'm not really supposed to, but I saw some papers with it on there while I was helping out."

"Really? Where is it?"

"I don't know the exact address. I think it's off 10th Avenue somewhere, though. Near the water."

Stiles tried not to roll his eyes. That could be _anywhere_. But it was more information than he'd had before.

He jumped into his car and took off. He thought he might just drive until he found an area with a sufficient number of warehouses. When Stiles finally got out of the car, he had to hope he was in the right area. He was in front of a large number of warehouses, each one resembling a barn, only bigger, with several stories on each. Stiles could hear people nearby – he thought he might be close to the Meatpacking District – but there was nobody in his immediate vicinity.

Stiles was not going to let a dark alleyway prevent him from helping a friend, though, especially when she obviously needed someone to help her see sense. So he took off, his gun in one hand and bat in the other. He listened at the door of each warehouse and peeked into small windows.

Finally, inside the last building, Stiles saw light inside. Inside, Lydia, or the person he assumed must be Lydia, wore a helmet of some sort and coveralls. She was holding a flaming torch, welding slabs of metal together. Her giant metal construct had taken its final form.

It was giant, at least two stories high. It looked mostly like a large tank, but had metal arms that, no doubt, would move independently of each other.

He banged on the window to attract Lydia's attention, but she did not hear him.

Stiles walked around the building, looking for an entrance. It had massive loading doors street side, but they were bolted shut. There must be a one-person door somewhere.

Finally, he found it. It, too, was locked. He whacked at it with his bat in frustration, but brute force was also ineffectual. Not for the first time, Stiles wished he knew how to pick a lock. Both his father and his husband had frowned when he'd expressed this desire in the past.

He went back around to the front and considered breaking one of the lower windows, but a massive noise interrupted him.

The building began shaking slightly, the roof creaking terribly, and the two loading bay doors clattering against their hinges.

Stiles moved as fast as he could away from the doors, and just in time too, because they burst open, crashing against the sides of the building.

The tank came through. The doors were not quite tall enough to permit an easy exist, but this didn't trouble the machine. It simply took the roof off with it.

The machine and its driver did not notice Stiles far below in the shadows, but it spotted his car. It raised one arm and took careful aim. A burst of fire came pouring out the tip. His car was no more.

Stiles raised hit bat and tried activating the magnetic disruptor. It had no effect. Stiles was not surprised; after all, the redhead was not stupid enough as to build a weapon that could be so easily defeated by another of her own design. Especially if she knew Stiles was looking into things.

Stiles switched to his gun, but the bullet bounced harmlessly off. It didn't even leave a dent.

The machine proceeded down the street slowly, but at a steady pace. It did not seem to stop even when it hit the sides of buildings.

Stiles was at a loss. He didn't know what to do and he couldn't even leave, his car having been burnt by the machine. So he turned the opposite direction of the machine, toward the river.

* * *

As he staggered along, Stiles's mind whirled with confusion. Why would Lydia build such a machine? She was, by and large, a woman of subtlety. And why wasn't she headed towards the UN building? Or to the hotel nearby where the President was probably at by this time at night? If Lydia had designs on the President, she was going in the wrong direction. Stiles frowned. _I am clearly missing something. Either something Lydia said, or did not say, or something Deaton said or did not say. Or . . ._

Stiles stopped in her tracks and hit his forehead with the butt of his hand.

"Of course. I'm a fucking idiot. I have the wrong target."

Then he started walking again, his mind now calculating. The original ghostly messenger had never specified the President and neither had Deaton. They had all just assumed. What other pseudo-royalty did they have? Lydia and her tank weren't after the leader of the United States – a kind of king; no, she was after a hive queen. That made much more sense. Lydia had never liked the vampires, not since they corrupted Allison. Giver their rocky history, Stiles would bet Lydia was after Morrell. This made sense too, considering the direction the tank was headed. Somehow, Lydia had figured out where the Manhattan Hive was located.

Another mystery. The location of a hive was a guarded secret. Stiles knew of it, of course, but that was only because . . .

"Oh, crap. I'm such a dumbass!" _The burglary at Newark_! Lydia must have been the thief, stealing the old papers because among them was Stiles's original invitation from the Manhattan Queen to visit the hive. It had been delivered to him by Braeden Tandy the afternoon after Stiles had killed his first vampire. It contained the address of the hive house and Stiles had never thought to destroy it. _When did I even tell Lydia that story_?

Stiles cast desperately about the empty street. He had to reach the Manhattan Hive and fast. It seemed even the noises he had heard earlier had left quickly when a large tank started rolling through the area. He had no idea what he was going to do.


	13. Chapter 13

It seemed after just a moment of scanning the deserted street for an errant cab or _anything_ to get him to the Manhattan Hive, when a black car came to screeching halt in front of him. Stiles jumped back, afraid he might get hit.

The driver stuck his curly head out the window. "Stiles! Get in!"

When he jumped in the backseat behind Isaac, Stiles noticed that the passenger seat held another of Laura's drones, and, more surprisingly, the back seat also held his son.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles demanded. "Why is Connor here? Did Derek put you up to this?"

Isaac looked guilty. "Well, it wasn't just Derek. Laura asked us to keep an eye on you as well."

"Then why is Connor here?"

The young boy was half asleep, having shifted from leaning against the car door to leaning against his father once Stiles got into the car.

"Well, Heather was watching him, you know, but you took off so fast from Lydia's shop that I couldn't keep up. Heather was nearby, showing him some of the more kid-friendly full-moon activities, so she picked me up."

Stiles rolled his eyes at the thought of a tail, but figured he'd yell about it later.

"Okay, well, not to inconvenience you, but I need to stop by the Manhattan Hive, immediately."

Stiles didn't particularly want to bring his son anywhere near the danger, but if he went home first, he'd never make it in time.

* * *

The Manhattan Hive house was one of many similar fashionable residences. It stood at the end of the block and a little apart from the row, but nothing else distinguished it as special or supernaturally inclined.

On this particular full moon, it was busier than usual, with a number of cars pulling in at the front and letting out a number of the city's most important politicians, celebrities, and socialites. Stiles, as shah, knew (although others might not) that the assembled were all in the vampire's enclave, or employ, or service, or all three.

When they pulled up, neither of the drones moved.

"I know you both cannot go in. I don't want you to, Laura _or_ Derek's orders be damned. Watch Connor. Protect him first. Remember, he's Laura's son too."

The drones nodded gravely and Stiles exited the car.

He was immediately met by Braeden, changed into a much more fashionable – and more formal – evening gown. Stiles felt shabby by comparison, but he had more important things to consider.

"I need to get inside."

Perhaps sensing the urgency in his voice, Braeden simply offered Stiles her arm for him to escort her inside.

The house had not changed from when Stiles had visited it the first time. Inside, it was far more luxurious than its exterior suggested, although all displays were wealth were tasteful and understated.

Unfortunately, Stiles could barely see anything through the crowd of people milling about.

"There's a lot of people here, tonight."

Braeden nodded enthusiastically. "Miss Morrell is supposed to make a very important announcement this evening. Everyone accepted her invitation."

"Announcement? What kind of . . .?"

But Braeden's attention was back to pushing their way through the throng.

As they pressed on, Stiles became aware of a presence shadowing them through the crowed. Just as someone accosted Braeden from the front, a person behind them cleared his throat.

Stiles turned to find himself face-to-face with a tough, rough looking man. Stiles had always thought he looked more the part of a werewolf than a vampire.

"Ennis," he said warily in greeting.

The vampire did not smile, but that might have been because he did not wish to show Stile his fangs just yet. "Dr. Stilinski-Hale, what an unexpected surprise."

His words were stilted and uncomfortable sounding, but at least you could count on a vampire to get his name correct.

Stiles glanced at Braeden, who was engaging in a hushed and rather forceful conversation with Ethan, another member of the Manhattan Queen's inner circle. He did not look pleased.

"We did not expect you on this particular night. We had assumed you be assisting your husband with his"—a calculated pause—"disability."

Stiles narrowed his eyes and fished in his pocket, coming up with the required card. "I have _an invitation_."

"Of course you do."

"It is most urgent that I speak with the queen immediately. I have some important information for her."

"Tell it to me."

Stiles put on his most superior, Jackson-ish expression and looked him up and down. "I think _not_."

The vampire stood his ground.

Stiles moved his hand, as if to touch the vampire. The vampire watched this movement with concerned interest.

"No need for that."

"It really is important that I see her as soon as possible. She may be in grave danger."

The vampire smiled. His fangs were small and sharp, barely present, as subtle as the rest of him was not.

"You mortals are always in a hurry."

Stiles gritted his teeth. "This time it is in _your_ best interest—really, it is."

He led Stiles through the crowd, which thinned as they left the main hallway. The vampire moved at a sedate pace, too slow for Stiles, who pushed past him.

The vampire hurried to catch up,, pushing past Stiles in turned when they reached the stairs, leading the way up rather than, as had occurred on previous occasions, into the back parlor that was the queen's preferred meeting place. This was a special evening, indeed. Stiles was being let into the inner sanctuary of the hive. He had never before been allowed _upstairs_.

There were drones placed strategically on the staircase, all attractive and perfectly dressed, looking like they might be guests at the party, but Stiles knew from the way they watched him that they were as much fixtures in the house as its furniture. Only more deadly than the furniture, he supposed. They did nothing, however, as Stiles was in the company of Ennis. But they did watch him carefully.

They arrived at a closed door. Ennis knocked, a pattern of taps. It opened to reveal Aiden.

"Dr. Stilinski-Hale! How unexpected."

"So everyone keeps pointing out." Stiles tried to barge past him.

"You can't come in here."

"Oh, good lord, I don't mean her any harm. Actually the opposite."

An exchange of glances occurred between Ennis and Aiden.

Finally, Aiden said, "I must take your bat, then."

"Hell no. We'll probably need it in a minute, especially if you don't let me in."

"I must insist."

"Let him in, Aiden, dear." Marin Morrell spoke.

Immediately, Aiden moved out of Stiles's direct line of sight, revealing the interior of the room. It was a well-decorated bedroom, complete with not only a massive canopied bed, but also a full sitting area and two doors that probably led to a closet and bathroom. There was the latest and most sophisticated in exsanguination warmers and an overlarge teapot for storing blood.

Stiles walked forward, only to have his way blocked yet again by Aiden. "My Queen, I must protest, a spark in your inner sanctum."

Morrell looked at him sharply. "Aiden, we have been over this before."

"He is a _hunter_ ," protested Aiden.

"He is a _professor_. Aren't you, Dr. Stilinski?"

Stiles nodded. "Usually. Had to take leave this semester after the murder attempt in my first class of the term."

Morrell ignored the insinuation.

"Listen, though, you have to leave. Now!"

"Leave this room? What for? It is one of my favorites."

"No, no, leave this house."

"Abandon my hive? Never. Don't be foolish."

"But there is a tank headed this direction. It wants to kill you and it knows the location."

"Preposterous. How would it know where to find me?"

"Ah, well, yes. There was this break-in."

Ennis bristled. "Spark! What have you done?"

"How was I to remember one little invitation from ages ago?"

The queen went momentarily still. "Dr. Stilinski, who wants to kill me?"

"Oh, too many to choose from? I am similarly blessed."

"Spark!"

Stiles had hoped not to reveal the identity of the attacker. It was one thing to warn the hive of imminent attack; it was another to expose Lydia without first understanding her motives. _Well, perhaps if my_ friend _had let me in on her reasoning, I might not be forced into this situation. In the end, I am shah. I have to maintain peace between humans and supernaturals. No matter Lydia's reasons, we cannot have a hive arbitrarily attacked._

Stiles took a deep breath and told the truth. "Lydia Martin has built a tank. She intends to kill you with it."

The queen's eyes narrowed.

"What?" That was Ethan, who had appeared in the room at some point. He made his way over to the queen. "I told you no good would come of taking in that drone."

Morrell held up a hand. "She's after the boy."

"Of course she's after the boy!" Ennis's voice was harsh with annoyance. "Dabble in the affairs of mortal women and this is what happens. Tank at the door. I warned you."

Stiles blinked. "Liam? What has he got to do with this? Wait." He tilted his head and gave the queen a look. "Did you kidnap Lydia's son?"

Stiles often felt it wasn't possible for a vampire to look guilty. But the queen was giving the expression a fair facsimile.

"Why? I mean, really?"

Morrell tsked dismissively. "Oh, really. There's no cause for condescension, spark. The boy was promised to us. In her will, Allison named the hive guardian to her child. We didn't even know he existed until that moment. Dr. Martin wouldn't hear of it, of course. But he _is ours_. And we never let go of what is rightfully ours. We didn't kidnap him. We _retrieved_ him."

Stiles thought of his own child, now officially entrusted to Laura in order to keep them both safe. "Really? What is with you? No wonder Lydia wants to kill you. Kidnapping? That's low. What could you possibly want with him anyway?"

The queen's face went very hard. "We want him because his is _ours_! What more reason do we need? The law is on our side in this. We have copies of the will."

Stiles demanded details. "Does it name the hive or you specifically?"

"Me alone, I believe."

Stiles threw his hands in the air. "Well, there you go. With no legal recourse, Lydia only has to see you dead in order to get her child back. Plus, she has the added pleasure of killing the woman who corrupted her partner."

The queen looked as though she had not thought of matters in such a way.

"You cannot be serious."

Stiles shrugged. "Consider her perspective. Now, we really need to leave."

The queen shook her head. "You may leave, of course, but—"

"No, no, both of us, I insist."

"Foolish child," said Ennis. "How can anyone know so little of vampire edict and sit on the Shadow Council? Our queen cannot leave this house. It is not a matter of choice—it is a matter of physiology."

"She could swarm."

Aiden hissed.

Stiles said, "Go on, swarm."

Ethan let out an annoyed sigh. "Save us all from the practicality of sparks. She can't swarm on command. Queens don't just up and warm when told they have to. Swarming is a biological imperative. You might as well tell someone to spontaneously combust."

Stiles looked at Ennis. "Really? Would that work on him?"

At which point a tremendous crash reverberated through the house, and guests at the party below started screaming.

The tank had arrived.

Stiles gestured with his gun in an arbitrary manner. " _Now_ will you swarm?"


	14. Chapter 14

The queen jumped to her feet. Ennis decided that Stiles was no longer the greatest threat in his world and turned toward the noise.

"Now would be an excellent time," prodded Stiles.

The queen shook her head in exasperation. "Swarming is not something one chooses. I know this is difficult for you to understand, spark, but not everything is a result of conscious thought. Swarming is instinct. I have to know, deep down in my soul on a supernatural level, that my hive is no longer safe. Then I would have to source a new hive, never to return to this one. Now is not that time."

The house rattled on its foundations as another might crash rent the air.

"Are you convinced of that?" wondered Stiles.

Something was literally tearing its way through the building.

"Where did you stash Liam?" Stiles raised his voice to carry over the din.

The queen was distracted by the commotion. "What?"

"I was simply suggesting you might want to get him. Have him with you and soon."

"Oh, yes, excellent plan. Aiden, would you get him?"

"Yes, my queen." The vampire looked reluctant to obey; no vampire wishes to leave the side of his queen when she is in danger. But a direct order was a direct order, so he bowed perfunctorily and scurried off.

Another crash sounded. The door burst open. A number of drones and several other hive vampires ran into the room. Braeden Tandy was the last inside, slamming the door behind her. Her gown was ripped and her hair had fallen down around her face.

"My queen! You would not believe the monster down there! It has fire and wooden blades. One of the arms seems to shoot stakes and I think another has bullets."

"Anything else?"

Braeden shook her head. "It hasn't used anything else yet."

"She'll have armed every single part with something deadly. That's how she thinks."

Stiles couldn't help but agree.

The wall on the opposite side of the room shook. They heard a horrible, wrenching, tearing, crashing noise. It was the sound of metal and wood and brick colliding. The entire wall before them was ripped apart. Once the dust settled, the top of the tank became visible. Stiles could just see the fleeing forms of the queen's party guests in the street below.

Stiles raised his bat and stood. He pointed it at the tank accusingly. "Lydia, I hope you haven't killed anyone."

But if Lydia was in there, guiding the tank, she did not acknowledge Stiles. She had one intended target and one target only—Queen Marin Morrell.

A giant arm wormed its way up into the room and hit at the vampire queen, trying to crush her. The queen, supernatural in speed, simply dodged out of the way of the massive metal thing. But she was truly trapped, for there were no other doors out of the room, and half of her house was now destroyed.

Ennis charged. Stiles had no idea what he intended to do or how he intended to do it, but he seemed bent on doing something. He leaped, impossibly fast and high, landing on top of the tank, where he began trying to scrabble for a way inside.

Stiles figured that was a pretty intelligent plan, but the vampire was thwarted in his attempts to pull off the top. He tried to punch his way through, but Lydia was a master worker in such matters. The head was practically seamless, with no possible way of getting in from the outside, not even for a vampire. She had given herself slits to see out of, but those slits were just big enough to peer through; they were not sufficiently large for a vampire to get his fingers inside and pry open the casing.

An arm whipped around and with a casual gesture brushed Ennis off as if he were a crumb. The vampire fell past the edge of the floor where the wall had once stood, grabbing wildly and missing, and disappeared out of sight. Only to reappear moments later, simply leaping up from one story to the next until he was back inside.

This time Ennis dove for the root of one of the arms, trying to tear it off the body. Relying on all his strength, he attempted to forcibly rip it away. Nothing. Lydia always thought in terms of supernatural strength and designed her devices accordingly.

While Ennis was occupied with a direct attack, several of the braver drones also charged at the tank. They were swept aside with little more than a perfunctory wave of one of the arms. Others made their way to their queen, standing in a protective huddle between her and the mechanical beast.

Another arm crept into the room, which now seemed to be filled with the writhing metal arms. This one raised up slowly, like a snake. Its tip opened with a snap and it shot a blast of fire at the group surrounding Morrell.

Drones screamed and the queen leapt to the side, carrying two of them with her. She would try to rescue any she could from the flames, much as Derek would do with his clavigers under similar circumstances.

Knowing it was probably futile, Stiles activated the magnetic disruptor in his bat, aiming it at the tank. As before, there was no reaction to the invisible blast. The arm swung around, spraying fire around the room. The bed caught fire and flamed up to the ceiling.

All was chaos in the room, with the smell of burning and the sound of screaming around him. Another arm slithered into the room. Stiles had a sinking feeling that this one might actually be a real threat. Lydia was done playing. Stiles knew what his bat was capable of where vampires were concerned and this particular arm dripped with an ominous liquid—a liquid that sizzled when it hit the carpet and burned a hole where it landed.

"Lydia, don't! You could hurt a lot more people than just the vampires!" Stiles was scared, not just for the hive, but also for the drones, who all seemed to be in the line of fire.

"Morrell, please, you must draw her away. People will die." Stiles turned his plea on the endangered vampire queen.

But the queen was beyond reason. All her efforts were now focused on protecting herself and her people from annihilation.

Aiden reappeared, carrying a small boy in his supernaturally strong arms. If possible, the vampire moved even faster than the queen had, coming to a stop before her and thrusting Liam's kicking form into her grasp. Everything stilled.

Liam was hollering and thrashing, but upon seeing the tank, he seemed more afraid of it than the vampires. He squealed and clutched reflexively at Morrell's neck with one arm.

The tank could not fire without risk of injury to the boy. No modern science had yet devised a weapon, apart from sunlight, that could harm a vampire without also harming a human. One of the arms, already falling with deadly force towards the vampire queen, veered away at the last minute, landing with a crash nearby.

Finally, a noise emanated from the tank. Lydia spoke.

"Give me my son and I will leave you in peace, Morrell."

"Mom!" yelled Liam to the tank. Realizing it was his mother and not some nightmarish monster, he began struggling in the vampire queen's arms. To absolutely no avail, of course; she was much, much stronger than he would ever be. The queen merely clutched the boy tighter.

Liam yelled again. "Stop, Mom. They haven't hurt me. They've been very kind. They feed me candy!" His pointy chin was set and his voice imperious.

Lydia said nothing more. It was clear they were at an impasse. The queen was not going to let go of the boy and Lydia was not going to let them go anywhere.

The house swayed on its foundation. Over half of it was now gone, with only the back section still intact, and there was very little holding that in place. The frame and supports were failing.

Stiles made his was slowly closer to the vampire queen, careful not to touch her. "I know you said practicality wouldn't come into it, but this would be an excellent time to swarm, if you could try."

Morrell turned her eyes on Stiles. She drew her lips back in a shriek of wrath, exposing all four of her fangs: Feeders and Makers, the second set being ones that only a queen had. Very little sense was left in the woman's face.

Stiles was not normally an indecisive individual, but in that second he wondered if he might not have chosen the wrong side in this battle. Even though Lydia was rampaging through the city, not caring who she hurt or killed, the queen was behaving like nothing more than a kidnapper. Stiles knew he had the capacity to end this. He could reach out and touch the vampire, turn her human and utterly vulnerable and unable to hold on to Liam. He hesitated and in that moment, as if to settle the matter, a metal arm came crashing toward them. It knocked Stiles back. He tripped, stumbled, and fell backwards, dropping his bat as he went.

In the time it took him to scrabble to his feet, Ennis and two other vampires leapt at the tank in one coordinated charge. They draped a large tarp over it. It momentarily blinded Lydia on the inside. She could neither steer nor attack. The arms flailed futilely.

With the tank temporarily disabled, the queen sprang into action. So did her drones. They all ran to the open side of the building, the queen moving at speed and clutching Liam tight to her chest. Without hesitation, she leaped over the edge and down to the rubble. Liam let out a holler of fear at the plunge, quickly followed by what could only be a whoop of exhilaration.

Stiles made his was downstairs as carefully as he could. He was both happy and annoyed to find the car with Heather and Isaac still parked out front.

"Why didn't you leave? I told you to keep Connor safe!"

"We had to make sure you got out okay." Isaac shrugged, as if that answer was enough. To him, Stiles thought, it probably was.

"Where to?"

Stiles looked at Heather, who had taken up in the back seat of the car with Connor at some point in the night – whether to defend him or just to make him more comfortable, Stiles wasn't sure. Stiles could only think of one place to go, with his husband out of commission and the moon still high and bright above them.

BUR, he was confident, would already be investigating the scene of the destruction or chasing the tank as it crashed through the city. BUR had an arsenal of weaponry as its disposal. Let _them_ try to stop Lydia for awhile. They probably wouldn't be any more successful than he had been, given the machine, but they might slow her down. Stiles, after all, had only a bat. Then he swore, realizing that he didn't even have that anymore. It was lying in the rubble, probably buried under half a collapsed building. He still had his gun, but his precious bat was gone.

"I think, for now, we just need to go home. I need to speak with Laura."


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles had barely made it out of the car, pulling a half-asleep Connor on to his hip, when Laura met him at the door. She looked distressed.

"Do you have _any_ idea who is sitting in the back alley behind my house right now?"

Since Stiles was fairly certain he would have spotted the tank right away, he took his second best guess.

"Marin Morrell?"

"Behind the house! How did _you_ know?"

Stiles smiled faintly. "Now you know how I always feel."

"She swarmed."

"Yes, _finally_. You wouldn't believe what it took to get her out of that place. You'd think she was a ghost – so tightly tethered as to never be separated."

Laura took a deep breath and composed herself. "Stiles, _darling_ , please don't tell me you're responsible for . . . you know." She fluttered her hand in the air.

"Oh, no. Not me. Lydia."

"Oh. Of course. The shop owner." The vampire's expression was arrested, deadpan at this latest bit of information.

Stiles swore he could see the cogs and wheels of her massive intellect whirring away behind the painted face.

"Because of the drone?" She finally hazarded a guess.

Stiles was enjoying the upper hand for once. He never imagined that he would one day have more information than Laura did.

"No – Liam."

"Her son?"

"Not exactly hers."

"The little idiot the queen had with her? The one who ripped my dress?"

"That sounds like Liam."

"What's the hive queen doing with the inventor's son?"

"Apparently Allison left a will."

Laura rolled her eyes. "She left him in the care of the _hive_? Silly child."

"And Morrell stole him from Lydia. So Lydia built a tank and destroyed the hive house trying to get him back."

"Well, that's quite an escalation."

Stiles shrugged and made to move past Laura into the house.

She stiffened and her eyes flashed. "I'm sorry, but nobody can come in right now. Nobody but my own drones."

Stiles gave her an odd look. "I'm sorry, but what?"

"Nobody in here right now." She had such a serious expression on her normally carefree face that Stiles didn't even try to ask for a more in-depth explanation.

Laura gestured at Connor, still in Stiles's arms. "Connor may come in. He _is_ mine. He would be safe here."

But Stiles shook his head. "I'm sorry, but no. Not if I can't go in."

She nodded. "I understand. I know I am not his only parent. I won't force you to put him somewhere that I won't let you in."

Stiles smiled - grateful that she understood. But then he grew concerned again.

"What are we going to do with the hive in the back, though?"

Laura shrugged. "As long as she is gone from here soon, I don't particularly care."

Stiles forgot sometimes, that vampires were very territorial. Laura's demeanor was rapidly reminding him. She seemed utterly unconcerned with anything other than getting the other vampires away from her house. Her entire demeanor screamed _threat_.

"To be really safe and buy us some extra time, we really out to get her out of New York."

"She won't like that at all, but there is _sense_ to the suggestion."

"How long do we have? How long does swarming usually last?"

Laura frowned. Concerned over whether she should give Stiles this information, he suspected, rather than over any possibility of her not having it. "A new queen has months to settle, but an old queen has only a few hours."

Stiles shrugged. His house next door was clearly too close if Laura's demeanor was anything to go by, so that was out. Only one solution readily presented itself. It was the safest place he knew of—defensible and secure.

"I'll have to take her to Newark."

"If you say so, Stiles."

There was something in her tone that gave Stiles pause. She sounded like that when she had recently purchased designer shoes before anyone else. He couldn't understand why she should be so self-satisfied with this predicament. As his husband would say, _vampires!_

Someone had to do something. They couldn't let the Manhattan queen simply stay outside in the alley behind their houses.

"It will only be until we can figure out what to do with her. And how to fix this situation with Liam. Hopefully without destroying the rest of the city. Can I borrow a couple of cars? Mine was destroyed earlier and the rest of the packs' are already at Newark."

Laura nodded and went inside to have a few drones bring them around front, so no one would need to get any nearer to her house than necessary.

Stiles walked around to the back, still holding his increasingly heavier son to his hip.

Behind the house, the hive waited. Morrell was there with Ennis, Aiden, Ethan, and two other vampires Stiles did not know by name. The hive queen was not in any condition to converse on any topic, mundane or otherwise. She was in obvious mental distress, her movements frenzied and her nerves overset. She paced to and fro, muttering and jerking at any noise. Sometimes she fought against one of her male counterparts as though trying to escape from the loose circle they formed around her. Occasionally, she would lash out at one of them, clawing at his face or biting hard into an exposed body part. The male vampire would only gently put her back into the center of the group, his wounds healed by the time she resumed her twitching.

Stiles noted with relief that Liam had been transferred to Ethan's care. It was clearly not safe for a mortal to be near the queen.

When he got close enough, Morrell turned and hissed at him. Actually hissed.

"Oh, really." Stiles rolled his eyes. He looked at Ennis. "Would you like me to sober her up?" He twiddled his fingers at him.

Ennis snarled and leaped to place himself between Stiles and his queen.

"Apparently not. Have you a better solution?"

Ethan, calmer than the other vampires, said, "We could not have her mortal and vulnerable, not in such an unprotected state."

"Well, then I suggest we retreat to Newark for now. Take refuge there."

All the assembled vampires, even the queen, who seemed to have only a limited ability to follow what was going on around her, paused to look at Stiles as though he had just grown a second head.

"Are you certain, Dr. Stilinski?" asked one of them, almost timidly for a vampire.

Ethan stepped forward, elongated and frail-looking, for all he held the struggling Liam as though he weighed nothing. "You are inviting us to stay? At Newark?"

Stiles did not see the source of their persistent confusion. "Well, yes."

Aiden looked at Ennis. "It is unprecedented."

Ennis looked at Ethan. "There is no edict for this."

Ethan looked at Stiles, rolling his head from one side to the other. "The marriage was unprecedented and so was the child. He is simply maintaining his brand of tradition."

Aiden moved toward Morrell. Cautiously, careful not to make any sudden movements.

"My Queen, we have an option." He spoke precisely, careful to enunciate each and every word."

Morrell shook herself. "We have?" Her voice sounded hollow and very far away. "Who must we kill?"

"It is an offer freely given. An _invitation_."

For a moment, Morrell seemed to return to herself, focusing completely on the faces of her three most treasured hive members. Her supports. "Well, let us take it then. No time to spare." She looked around, eyes suddenly sharp. "Are we in an alley? Where _have_ you brought me?"

With a nod to Stiles, Aiden hustled his queen around the corner into one of the cars. Ethan sat in the front of the car after placing Liam in the back and Aiden took the driver's seat. Stiles did not think it was a good idea to let the queen pull up to a castle of werewolves on the full moon without him, so resigned himself to riding with them. He clambered into the backseat with Morrell and put Connor in his lap. The rest of the hive took the other car. Ethan carefully watched to ensure that Liam stayed between Stiles and Morrell the whole ride, keeping Stiles from accidentally touching the queen.

When Stiles could finally see Newark Castle looming on the skyline, he heard a terrible crashing sound. It might have been difficult for Stiles to make out their enemy if it had been another car or just a single man, but the thing following them was a massive tank with eight metal arms – one of which was shooting fire at them.

Stiles, feeling like a horrible person, but knowing that it was ultimately going to save all their lives, grabbed Liam and held his head out the window, willing Lydia to realize her son was in the car.

The tank fell back just far enough to allow them to straighten up the car and continue on, but if Stiles knew Lydia, this was only giving the inventor time to come up with a new plan of attack. Lydia must realize Stiles was also in the car and that they were headed to Newark. There was no other reason to be on that road at that time.

A crushing, grinding noise came from behind them. Stiles had no idea what the tank was up to, but when he stuck his head out the window, he saw it was no longer following them. And they were almost home.

Mere moments later, a tremendous crash came in front of them and the car slewed to one side and came to a rocking halt. Out of the window Stiles could just see Newark ahead, silvered under the moonlight.

It might has well have been a thousand miles away, for the tank had felled a tree across the road before them and the grounds were too steep to drive a car up without the road. Aiden could not turn the car around, because behind them the tank barred the way. The vampire escort in the other car was already out of the car, forming a barrier around the car, as though they could stop any attack by physically imposing themselves between the tank and their queen.

Stiles glanced around in desperation. He was among enemies, exhausted, and his son was in danger. He was running out of options and would have to trust one of the vampires.

"Ethan, we need some help and we need a distraction if we are to make it to our destination."

"What do you suggest?"

"That we call out the hounds."

"And how do we do that? I don't think you'd make it to Newark with the child and I doubt you'd leave him behind. None of us can carry you and no claviger will take the word of a vampire messenger."

"Listen to me. You tell them that Stiles says it is a _matter of urgency_. The Alpha doctor requires his pack to attend him, regardless of their current state." _I will have to change the secret phrase now_.

"But—"

"It will work. You must trust me." He wasn't certain, of course. _A matter of urgency_ and _Alpha doctor_ were pack codes for Stiles acting as shah. He'd rarely had to use the summons, and then only with a perfectly sane husband or Beta, never with only clavigers. Would the message even be understood?

Ethan gave him one hard, long look. Then he whirled and ran, leaping the fallen tree with almost as much ease a werewolf, heading directly for the castle, supernatural speed in full effect.

"Give me Liam. You are out of options." There came a short pause. "I can hardly believe you, Stiles, helping vampires. They tried to kill you!"

Stiles yelled back. "So? Recently, you did too. In my experience, murder could almost be an expression of affection."

He may be joking out loud, but inside Stiles was afraid.

Then came the noise, an eerie blessing of a sound, one that Stiles had grown to love very much.

Wolves. Howling.


	16. Chapter 16

The Newark Pack was large for a werewolf pack, a good dozen strong. And a dozen werewolves is like two dozen regular wolves in size alone. Normally, they were also one of the more tame packs. When other packs were feeling snide, they called Newark _trained_. But no werewolf behaves himself on the full moon – no werewolf can. Even Derek was lost to his werewolf side when the moon was out and only a touch from Stiles could bring him to his right mind.

Stiles knew very well that he was taking a dangerous risk. He also knew that his smell would attract his husband. Even in the madness of the full moon, he would run to Stiles. Derek would try to kill him – he wouldn't be able to help it – but he would come. He was Newark's Alpha for a reason, with enough power to hold his pack and drag them with him, no matter how strong the need to break away and trail blood across the land. They would all follow him, which meant Derek would being them all to Stiles.

And Stiles was correct.

They poured out of the lower doors and windows of the castle, howling to the skies. They evolved into a kind of cohesive moving liquid, flowing down the hillside as one silvered blob. The howling became deafening as they neared, and they were quicker than Stiles remembered, full of rage at a world that forced such a cost of immortality on them. Any human would flee, and Stiles could see that even the vampires were tempted to run away from the massive supernatural force charging toward them.

Stiles couldn't run, though. He wasn't quick enough on his own, much less carrying Connor. And even if he did run, Derek would only hunt him down. At least here, hiding in the car, Derek might get distracted by a vampire or the tank before he tried to kill Stiles. If Stiles were a wolf, it might have been a different kind of hunt. A playful tussle that led to other things. But Stiles was human and Derek was overtaken by the full moon. It messed with his instincts. He knew he _wanted_ Stiles, but as a wolf hunting a human, he thought he wanted him for food. Derek was fast enough to get a life-threatening bite in before Stiles's abilities took over and turned him human. And what about Connor? He had no such assurances. So Stiles hunkered down in the car, watching the wolves run towards them.

At the front ran the biggest wolf, black coat with red eyes, intent on one thing—a smell on the evening breeze. It was the scent of what he desired. And Derek ran. But he caught another scent, dominating everything else – a monstrous machine, another enemy.

Derek was close. Stiles could see nothing of the man he loved his those red eyes, not during the full moon. He shoved Liam and Connor into Ethan's hands.

"Guard them."

And then he did the least sensible thing he could think of. He started to get out of the car, ready to try to touch his husband if he needed to. But before he could get more than a leg out, the wolf pack turned sharply, headed straight for the tank.

Stiles sighed with relief. Apparently the driving instinct was to defend territory first and eat later.

The pack launched itself on the tank. One wolf at each arm and the remaining four attacked the main body. Supernatural teeth were guided by instinct towards joints and arteries, even if these were mechanical in nature.

Stiles could only watch, admiring the grace in their high leaps. He held his gun in one hand, but it dangled uselessly. He didn't want to risk hitting a wolf. The vampires made no move to help either. This might have been because they were afraid a werewolf would take this the wrong way and start attacking them, or it might have been because they were vampires.

Stiles looked up for a moment. He saw a black blob in the distance, behind the tank. He looked over towards the east. He couldn't help but cry out. There was a distinct pinking to the night sky.

He had to get them all to the safety of the castle.

He looked to Aiden. "We need to bring this thing down now, buy us enough time to get to Newark. _The sun is rising_."

The vampire's eyes went black with fear. The sun would stop werewolves in their tracks, turning them back to human shape. It would slow some of the younger members, making them vulnerable and it would do permanent damage to Scott, who lacked any control. But it would kill the vampires, every last one of them, even the queen.

"Look, tear off the roof of the car."

"What?"

"Tear it off. With one vampire at either end, you can use it to carry me and Connor to Newark. You won't get in without me and I can't run as fast as you. You won't have to touch me that way."

Aiden nodded and jumped on top of the car. Stiles heard a loud ripping noise. He was going to owe Laura a new car.

Above, he saw a bright flash of light emanate from the side of the black blob – more clearly a helicopter now that it was closer – and heard a loud clang as a massive bullet hit and tore through the tank. It lurched at the impact, but did not fall.

Laura had sent air support. Stiles had no idea what kind of weapon her drones had, but he didn't really care. It fired again.

By the time the second projectile hit, Aiden and Ennis had the top of a car ripped off and ready for Stiles to ride. Stiles took Connor back from Ethan and sat down.

They lifted him up. The queen and Ethan, carrying Liam, took off towards Newark, jumping the felled tree. Stiles could do nothing more than grip the side of the metal sheeting, cutting his hands on the jagged edges. The leap over the fallen tree was torture and he was convinced he would fall when they bumped down, but he managed to hold on.

The wolves were providing enough of a distraction so that Lydia did not at first see them break for the castle. By the time she did, sending flames blasting after them, they were well out of range.

There was no need to bang on Newark's door; it was wide open, with many of the clavigers assembled at the front, mouths open.

Everyone ran up, right up to the entrance, at which point the vampires stopped abruptly. They waited with a ritual solemnity.

"What is it _now_?" Stiles was annoyed.

He was gently let down at the door and managed to get through the front door, still clutching Connor. One of the clavigers made to take him from Stiles, but Stiles wouldn't let go.

Still the vampires waited at the front door.

Stiles looked at them. "Well?"

"Invite us in to stay, Dr. Zycie Stiles Stilinski-Hale, Newark Alpha Mate, master of this domicile." The queen's words were singsong and hymnlike. She didn't even stumble over his name. She clutched a wide-eyed, blubbering Liam tight to her breast—no trace of the mischievous kid left, just terrified boy.

"For god's sake, come in, come in." Stiles frowned, trying to think. They had a number of rooms, but where to put an entire hive of vampires. "Best to put you all down in the dungeon. It's the only place I can guarantee that there are no windows."

One of the clavigers came forward. "Stiles, what have you done?"

The vampires traipsed solemnly into the house. Stiles pointed out the appropriate staircase and they filed wordlessly down.

"You have invited in a queen?"

"I have."

Aiden gave Stiles a tired smile as he passed. "We can never go back now, you realize, Dr. Stilinski? Once a queen swarms and relocates, it is forever."

Stiles finally understood Laura's smile and why she refused to allow anyone in her house. Stiles had managed to get her greatest rival out of New York City for good. Not only was she potentate, and in charge of her very own group of very specially trained drones, but she would also now be the sole vampire leader left in Manhattan.

And Stiles was stuck with vampires in his basement. "Dammit. She played me."

"Look, there's a tank outside."

The claviger nodded. "I had noticed. And half of BUR has just arrived as well."

Stiles looked. It was true. Several of BUR's human members, on the tank's trail out of New York, had finally caught up. "Oh, God. The pack will turn on them, they're food." And even as he watched, one of the werewolves left of fighting Lydia's creature and charged one of the BUR agents. "We must protect them. Get the pack members back inside. Get out the silver and see if we have any wolfsbane. I think we're going to need the big guns tonight."

The claviger nodded and called for the rest.

The clavigers all armed themselves and took up silver nets. Each put a whistle over their heads. They were so high-pitched that no human ear could possibly make out the sound, but wolves and dogs were violently affected by the noise.

Stiles thought of something. "We need to bring in Scott first. Remember, he's still young. He'll take sun damage. Take care—he'll be the most viscous."

Stiles would have liked to take part in the small battle, but he was still refusing to let go of Connor – not with moon mad werewolves on the loose, a hive of vampires in the dungeon, and still standing tank on the doorstep. It sounded like the set up for a bad joke. He was sure his life had never been this complicated before getting involved with Derek.

Instead, he stood at the front door, watching chaos ensue. He soon realized, however, that he was in the way of clavigers as the brought in werewolves trapped in the silver nets. So he stepped out further, in front of the house. The clavigers were keeping the wolves distracted enough that even out on the grounds, Stiles didn't think he'd be in trouble.

He forgot, for a moment, that it was his scent that Derek would always run to, further intensified by the cut on his hand.

In front of Stiles was suddenly a large black wolf, eyes glowing red. The wolf snarled, a growl deep in his throat. It had been a very long time since any werewolf had directed their snarl at him and Stiles was scared. The last time Derek had growled at him like this was when he had kicked them out of the house. At least then Derek had been human and could think. Right now, though, Derek was a werewolf in the throes of the full moon. Nothing Stiles said or did would get through to him, except for a touch, but Stiles knew he wasn't quick enough – not with Connor in his hands.

So he back away, slowly, clutching Connor. He knew, intellectually, that there was nothing he could say to get through to Derek. But he still wondered, if deep somewhere in there, Derek knew what was going on.

Connor was a quiet child. He'd always been so. Stiles wasn't sure he'd said much of anything the entire night, but that wasn't unusual. He didn't like new people and he'd been around vampires the entire evening.

However, he started pulling on stiles shirt anxiously. "Daddy, daddy, wolf."

"Sssh, Connor. I know. It's okay. We'll be okay."

Stiles tried to sound more confident than he felt. There were no clavigers near enough to help.

Just as Stiles was contemplating throwing Connor in one direction and bolting in the other, hoping Derek would follow him, Derek leapt. Stiles stumbled backwards, falling to the ground, trying as best he could to cradle his body around his son and keep the wolf away.

But Derek didn't land on them. Instead, he sailed over them, landing on a white wolf sneaking up behind them. Stiles hadn't even noticed him.

The white wolf—Jackson, Stiles realized—and Derek got to their feet. Derek moved towards Stiles and Connor, who were still on the ground.

 _This is it, then_ , Stiles thought. _Now he's going to eat us_.

But Stiles was surprised again. The wolf that was Derek stood in front of them, his massive body blocking them from Jackson, and growled again – a warning.

Jackson scampered off, probably to find someone else to eat. Derek stared at Stiles, his red eyes glowing. Stiles made to grab him and turn him human, but the wolf shook his head, as if to say no, and took off.

Someone had finally noticed the exchange and helped Stiles up.

"You should take him. He's not safe out here," he nodded at Connor.

"I know. I will. Thank you, Boyd. It's good to see you back at Newark." Stiles responded as he stood slowly.

"When BUR got the call, I was the first one out."

Stiles smiled gratefully.

Suddenly, wolves all around them started dropping and writhing. The sun was up, its first rays cresting the horizon.

Stiles panicked. "Scott! Scott is not inside yet!"

Stiles looked around frantically. "Clavigers! Get blankets! Get them covered!"

The clavigers hustled to do as he said and soon were running around covering the ones they could with blankets and pulling others into the house.

"Where's Scott?" Stiles couldn't see him anywhere.

Then he realized there was someone else he couldn't see, and his voice rose in terror to a near shriek. "Where's Derek? Oh no, oh no, oh no." He loved Scott dearly, but all his worry was now transferred to a much more important love—his husband. _Was he injured? Dead?_ He hadn't been out of sight that long before the sun came up, but it was enough time for some kind of injury.

Chris Argent, wearing a maroon curtain wrapped around him like a toga was issuing orders.

"Where is Derek?" Stiles practically shrieked.

"He's fine. He took Scott inside, out of the sun."

"Where?"

"Inside the tank. With Lydia. Once she realized, she opened the hatch and let them in."

Stiles swallowed down his fear, almost sick with relief. "Show me."

Argent led them to the tank, now missing most of its arms and a few wheels. It was unable to move. He tapped on it diffidently. A door, previously invisible popped open and Lydia Martin looked out.

Stiles wished he had his bat at that moment. He would have greeted the scientist with a very hard whack to the head, friend or no, for the mess.

"Stiles. Are you okay?"

Stiles was at his limit. "No, no, I am _not_. I have been chasing you all over the city or being _chased_ by you. I have watched the city burn and the hive house collapse. I've had my son attacked. And I have _lost my bat_!" This last part was said in a rather childish wail.

A different voice came from inside. "That my husband? Great. Scott needs some help."

Lydia's head disappeared with an "oof" as though she had been dragged forcibly backward and Derek's head emerged instead.

Stiles couldn't help himself, he rushed forward, kissing Derek as if he hadn't seen him in a month. He may have slightly crushed Connor in the process, if the cries and the tiny fist beating on his shoulder was anything to go by. Derek laughed, a deep rumble in his chest, and took the child from Stiles.

"C'mere, kid."

Stiles climbed in the tank, to get a better look at Scott. He was covered in blisters and burns.

"I'm not sure I should touch him like this. I think turning him human would do more harm than good."

Derek nodded and then stuck his head out to Argent.

"Go get as many blankets as you can. We'll have to wrap him up completely and carry him into the house until he heals."

Argent gave a sharp nod and Derek pulled the door of the tank shut.

"How is Liam?" demanded Lydia. "Is he unharmed?"

"He's safe." Stiles did not mention he was currently locked in a dungeon with a vampire queen.

"Stiles"—Lydia clasped her hands together and opened her eyes wide and looked pleading—"you know it was my only choice? You know I had to get him back. He's all I have. She stole him from me."

"And you couldn't come to me for help? Really, Lyds? What kind of friend do you take me for?"

"She has the law on her side."

"So?"

"You are shah."

"I might have been able to come up with a solution."

"I hate her more than anything. First she steals Allison, and now Liam! What right has she to—"

"And you solution is to build a tank? Really, Lydia, don't you think you might have overreacted?"

"The Order is on my side?"

"Oh, really? First they're taking in Blake's old scientists and now this? Looks like their main body may be developing an antisupernatural agenda. Derek, you may want to look into that."

Derek just grunted.

"Speaking of the supernatural," Stiles very obviously tried to change the subject, "how did you do that earlier, Derek?"

"Hmm?" was the only response.

"You protected us from Jackson. You shouldn't have any kind of control at the full moon. You should want to eat us all – me probably more than a normal person."

Derek shrugged, but his ears went slightly pink. Lydia busied herself looking at the controls on the tank, despite the machine's clear destruction.

"I told you, I'd never hurt you."

"But, but—" Stiles sputtered a bit. "I've _studied_ this for _years_! You can't make conscious decisions on the full moon. Meat is meat. The combined with my scent should make you want to kill me all the more. There's no way-"

Derek set Connor down and grabbed Stiles by both shoulders, cutting him off. "I'll never hurt you. I may lose some control. I can't control everything. I'll yell and scream and growl. But I will _never_ hurt you. I'd rather die. I'd rather take down my whole pack first, Stiles. I know that I'm dangerous, but I'm not dangerous to you."

Stiles swallowed hard. They'd spent the past few months walking on eggshells around each other. They loved each other, but sometimes that wasn't enough. Stiles had been afraid that it wouldn't be enough, no matter whether or not he said he forgave Derek. Because he couldn't _forget_ Derek snarling and growling at him. He couldn't be sure he could _trust_ Derek not to hurt them.

But here was proof. He was the evidence he was looking for. And he realized he hadn't needed it after all. He had called the wolves, knowing Derek would come to him. He had let them loose, knowing Derek would always run for him and _trusting_ _him_ to not hurt him.

Stiles felt like an idiot. _Not_ that he was going to tell Derek that. Derek deserved whatever guilt he felt for all the crap that had happened to Stiles in Europe. But for the first time in months, he wasn't wary, he wasn't anxious, and he felt _safe_.

So he pulled Derek close to him, this time with no kid between them, and drew him into a deep kiss.

Lydia cleared her throat. "None of that in my machine, please."

Derek growled at her, but Stiles pulled away.

"We'll have enough time for that later. We have a _huge_ mess to clean up."


	17. Chapter 17

They slowly made their way back up to the castle once Argent returned with what looked like most of the blankets they owned. They covered Scott as carefully as they could and Derek carried him gingerly, Stiles with Connor, and Lydia, who Argent was watching closely, following close behind. At which point Derek declared that Newark smelled like death.

Argent opened his mouth to explain but caught a sharp look from Stiles. So he refrained.

Predicting that his Alpha would find out soon enough on his own, the Beta carried Scott down to a cell, tended to his burns with what little first aid supplies they had on hand, and put him in a cell with Ethan, as the best of a lot of bad options.

Upstairs it was decided that Lydia should also be locked up.

"Put her into the one next to the queen and Liam," suggested Stiles snidely to his confused husband. "That'll be an interesting conversation come nightfall."

"Queen? What queen?"

Stiles contemplated letting Liam out—after all, he hadn't done anything wrong—but from previous experience, he saw no reason that having to look after him would improve matters. Liam was chaotic at the best of times. Plus, he suspected the best thing at the moment would be some time with his mother.

"But I just saved one of your pack!" protested Lydia.

"And I'm very grateful, Lyds." Stiles would give credit where it was due. "However, you also tore through New York with a giant tank and did a lot of damage. You may have even killed people. I'm not really sure."

The redhead rolled her eyes in disgust.

"At least this way you are near your son. He was very upset," yelled Stiles as his husband hauled the struggling scientist away.

Which was when Derek discovered the reason behind the smell. He had a hive of vampires in his castle.

He came storming back up stairs. "Stiles!"

Stiles had vanished.

"He's gone upstairs. To your room," said one of the clavigers helpfully.

"Of course he has."

Derek stomped upstairs to find Stiles sprawled out on their bed, having already tucked Connor into bed in his own room. It _had_ been a long night.

"There are _vampires_ in my dungeon!"

"Well, where else was I supposed to put them?"

"The queen swarmed? And you invited them in? _Here_?"

Stiles shrugged.

"Great. Fantastic," Derek almost spat out.

Stiles sighed, a sad, quiet noise that calmed Derek where his yelling would have only aggravated matters. "I can explain," Stiles said from behind a yawn.

Derek climbed into the bed next to his husband, his anger dissipated by Stiles's uncharacteristic meekness. Stiles must be very tired.

Stiles relayed the events of the night, and by the time he reached the concluding pack-versus-tank battle, he was yawning loudly.

"What are we going to do now?" wondered his husband. Even saying it, Stiles could tell from his defeated expression that he was already facing up to the truth—for better or worse. Newark Castle now belonged to the Manhattan Hive. Or rather, the Newark Hive.

Stiles grabbed his hand tenderly. He hadn't meant to make such a mistake, but the deed was done.

Derek sighed. "I rather liked this old place. But it hasn't been my home all that long. I can break from it. The rest of the pack are going to be difficult. I haven't served them very well the past few months."

Stiles squeezed his hand. "It's not your fault. I'll think of something." Stiles wanted to find a solution right then and there just to wipe the expression of guilt and disappointment off his husband's face, but he could hardly keep his eyes open.

Derek bent and pressed his lips to Stiles's forehead. Stiles suspected he was contemplating going back downstairs to check in with Argent, as there was still a lot to be done.

"Come to bed."

"Perhaps just a little nap."

"Argent has Boyd downstairs helping him. They could run the country, I think, if they felt like it."

Derek chuckled and crawled under the covers.

* * *

"Sorry to disturb you, but the vampires are asking for you." Argent's voice was quiet and apologetic.

Stiles came awake with a start to the feel of his husband shifting beside him. Derek was evidently trying to extract himself from the bed without disturbing him.

"What time is it, Chris?"

"Just after sunset. I thought it best to let you sleep the rest of the day."

"Really? And have you slept?"

Silence met that.

"Right. Tell me what's going on and then you go get some sleep."

Stiles heard a faint howling. The younger werewolves, still unable to control change so close to full moon, were changed again and imprisoned below for another night. Locked away with vampires.

"Who is with them?" asked Derek as he, too, registered the sound.

"Jackson."

"Oh, crap." All subtlety abandoned, Derek jumped out of bed.

"Yes. And what are we going to do about the vampires? We can't keep them locked up."

Derek sighed. "It's not them we have to find what to do with—it's us. We can't stay living here, not with a hive and they can't leave. When you invited her in, Stiles—" Derek turned to look at Stiles who stopped pretending to be asleep "—you gave them Newark."

"Really?"

Argent sat down in a nearby chair. Stiles had never seen him look defeated before, but at that moment, he looked as close to crushed as he'd ever seen.

Derek looked grim. "We'll have to move the pack permanently to New York."

Argent did not look happy. "The pack is not going to like this."

"I have made my decision," said his Alpha.

"The queen is not going to like this."

"That will be too bad."

"I think it's a very good idea," said Morrell, entering the room at that moment, followed by Liam and Lydia.

 _Well_ , Stiles supposed, _it's her room now._

"How did you three get out?" griped Argent.

The queen glared. "Did you think I was queen of the vampires for nothing? We are the original inventors of the idea of a mistress of the domain. This is now my domain. No cell in all of Newark will hold me for long."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Whatever. She can pick locks."

"It was fantastic," added Liam, who seemed to be regarding Morrell with real respect for the first time.

"Anyway, Newark is ours now."

Derek did not protest her claim. "We'll need a few days. The younger members of the pack can't be moved until the moon fades."

"Take all the time you need," said the vampire queen. "But the spark and his child must be out tonight. I won't have them in my house." She twirled toward the door dramatically and then paused on the threshold. "And the boy is mine."

With that, she swept out, presumably to release the rest of her hive. "Oh," Stiles heard her say to no one in particular as she walked down the stairs, " _everything_ will have to be redecorated!"

Lydia stayed behind. She looked tired. Liam was practically stuck to her side.

"You can't let her take him away from me." The inventor appealed to the assembled government officials with anguished eyes. "Please."

Stiles's subconscious had apparently given this some thought while he slept, because a solution occurred to him. "Speaking as shah, there's not actually anything you can do – legally – to remove him. If Allison's will is what you say it was and you never actually adopted him, than her claim is valid."

Lydia nodded morosely.

"But – as long as nobody last night actually did get hurt – we can give _you_ to Morrell."

"What!?"

"It's really the only way. As long as all the destruction was confined to supernatural property or supernatural persons, this won't be sent to a normal court. Any charges will end up in front of the Shadow Council and the hives and packs anyway. Liam is what, ten? So, with Morrell's approval—and I doubt she'll object—you can be a drone to the Manhattan Hive for the next eight years. Or, I should say, the _Newark Hive_. Given your hatred for the hive, it's _actually_ a punishment for you, so I doubt Peter or Laura will object and you get to stay with Liam. Call it community service or whatever."

Derek actually looked proud at Stiles's plan. If Lydia weren't freaking out, he would have shot his husband a glare. _Really_. _He was_ fantastic _at coming up with solutions_.

"This is a _terrible_ idea!"

"Can you think of something better? The only other solution will probably be jail and then you won't see Liam at all."

"But I _hate_ Morrell."

"I suspect so does most of her drones and some of her vampires."

"Do you really think the queen will go along with it?" Lydia sighed.

Stiles shrugged. "Why wouldn't she? She gets your inventions and patents for the next eight years. Liam stays with you both. The only problem is going to be if you caused any injury to non-supes."

Lydia shook her head. "No, I watched out. I only destroyed the hive house and I think a car when I first got it up and running. I hit a wrong button on the flame arm. All my attacks were directed at the hive, though. Any injury would be to just drones and vampires. Maybe some of your wolves."

Stiles nodded. "Yes, well, the car was _mine_ , thank you. But as long as there wasn't any non-supe damage we can keep it to the Shadow Council."

Lydia seemed to resign herself to the plan, but then started. "Wait. What about my shoe shop?"

"Well, I thought we might convert your lab into a dungeon for the pack. It's underground and secure."

Derek nodded. "It's a good place. I bet it's soundproofed too."

Lydia nodded. "But will I have to close it? I actually like designing shoes in my spare time."

Stiles rolled his eyes, but Derek looked like he had an idea. "What about Scott?"

"Scott? Selling _shoes_?" Stiles looked at his husband incredulously.

"He lived with Laura for years. He has to know _something_ about shoes. And you said he needed something to do. Some kind of employment."

Stiles looked at his husband thoughtfully. "You know, I bet you'd get a lot more customers if Scott was running it. Girls literally swoon over him. Something about the crooked jaw, I think."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Yes, I guess that will work. He probably can't mess it up too badly."

* * *

It took another week for the newly christened Manhattan Pack to officially move in. Stiles had spent the week with his son, for once feeling like he was starting to understand the whole father thing. Possibly it had to do with carrying Connor around for an entire night, fighting off a flame-throwing tank and wayward werewolves. Derek didn't stay there at all that week, though, so when Stiles heard that the pack would be officially moved in – and therefore Derek would be home for good – Stiles practically begged Laura to watch Connor for the night.

"Come on? Please?"

"Yes, yes. Go do terrible things to my brother. I don't want to hear anything else about it, though."

Stiles rolled his eyes.

When Derek walked into their shared room while Stiles was trying to button up a shirt, he immediately crowded Stiles, wrapping his arms around Stiles's shoulder from behind and burying his face in Stiles's neck.

"Mmm, hello Derek. I got Laura to watch Connor tonight. I thought we could go to dinner or catch a movie or some—" he got cut off by Derek spinning him around and kissing him soundly.

When he pulled back for air, Stiles started trying again to button up his shirt. Derek kept interfering.

"No, stop it. I thought we could go out."

"I don't want to go out. I want to stay in."

Stiles tried to respond, but Derek had already divested him of the shirt he'd given up on trying to button and was moving on to his belt. Stiles really couldn't find it in himself to care that much.

"Did you lock the door?"

Stiles could feel Derek shrug and so he moved them that way, never breaking contact, so that he could turn the lock.

"Don't need any interruptions. It's been too long." Stiles grinned wickedly.

Derek, even turned mortal at Stiles's touch, could still lift Stiles easily. He hoisted him there, and pushed him flush against the wall, kissing him hard. Stiles wrapped his legs around Derek's waist and grabbed his shirt, trying to pull him even closer.

Suddenly there was a banging on the wall and they could hear a faint voice from outside - Laura.

"I know what you're doing in there and you _will not_ do it on my wall! That's expensive wall paper! Use the bed like normal people!"

Derek flushed, his ears turning pink, but Stiles just dropped to his feet and drug Derek over to the bed to continue.

Later, as Stiles lay wrapped around Derek, he lay his head on Derek's chest.

Without looking up, he said, "I'm sorry it took me so long to, you know. . ." He trailed off.

Derek turned Stiles's chin upwards. "It's not your fault. It's all my fault. I know I can't say it enough, but I'm sorry. I never should have given you a reason not to trust me and I'll spend as long as it takes making it up to you."

Stiles pressed a chaste kiss to Derek's chest, right over his heart. "No, you've done that. You protected me and Connor when you shouldn't have even been able to. You know what you did was wrong. I know you know what you did was wrong. And you won't do it again."

Derek nodded.

Stiles levied himself up on to his elbows. "I just mean, I know living with someone who doesn't trust you couldn't have been easy. But thank you for giving me enough time to learn to trust you again."

"Stiles, I love you. Whatever you need, I'll always give you that."

"I love you too."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you all for the encouragement and for sticking with me for yet another story! Hope you enjoyed!

Be on the lookout at the end of August for the last story in the series, Infinite! Unfortunately, the bar exam is in less than two weeks and then I'm going to be out of the country for another three weeks, so I didn't feel like it was a good idea to start the last story immediately. I didn't want to just suddenly stop posting in the middle. But, I promise that I will write the last one and all things will be tied up! The Argent thing will be taken care of, there will be **lots** more focus on the kids (both current and ones hinted at in this story), and there may even be a bit of travel!


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